


starlight will come (in the dark of night)

by justicarwrites



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justicarwrites/pseuds/justicarwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Royals & Thieves AU</p>
<p>Lexa is the sole heir to Trigeda's throne. Clarke is a member of the local Thieves' Guild. They're supposed to be enemies, but it's never quite that simple.</p>
<p>or: the one where the world stands in their way, so they move the world</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been bugging me for weeks now, and I've finally decided to bring it some sort of reality in the hope that maybe you'll enjoy this au as much as I do. Let me know what you think in the comments or shoot me a message on tumblr, I'm a hoe for validation.
> 
> Special shoutout to my wonderful beta reader, Becca, who's been screaming with me about this for a while now. My obsession with it is at least 80% her fault.

The walk to the palace is long, only made longer by the unfamiliarity of the sights between “home” and “away”. The inner district is nothing like what Clarke is accustomed to, and she finds it difficult to power through the urge to stop and drink in the bustling of the crowds, the vibrancy of the colors splattered throughout the marketplaces she and her mother traverse, and the seemingly carefree nature of the people she encounters. She feels out of place among it all.

Town criers compete for attention, all attempting to be louder than one another, and most spouting news that Clarke’s people will never have time to care about.

“Rumored Maunon sighting on the outskirts!”

“Trishana to host annual First Nation ball!”

“The Thieves’ Guild strikes again! Food stores missing from across the city!”

Clarke can’t help but smirk upon hearing that particular announcement, despite Abby’s very clear discomfort at her daughter’s very visible approval.

Bellamy and the others must have had a successful run the previous night, making Clarke even more eager to return to the Ark. As an apprentice to the guild, she was expected to log a specific amount of hours cataloging and distributing the spoils of their runs before being considered for full membership. It was one of Bellamy’s many rules geared towards ensuring members were involved for the right reasons, and one Clarke didn’t particularly mind. Distribution, especially, was something Clarke found herself enjoying more often than not. It provided a pleasant reminder of why she joined the guild in the first place, and kept her motivated to strive towards contributing to the cause in a more active capacity.

That this trip is inhibiting her ability to log those precious hours is merely one of the many issues she has with taking it.

“Are you sure I have to come?” the girl questions, for probably the third time since they began the trek.

“No less sure than I was the last time you asked.” Between her own incessant complaining and her mother’s long-standing distaste for royalty, Clarke knew that the woman wasn’t exactly having the best of times either. It showed on her face, the creases between her eyebrows becoming more of a permanent fixture than Clarke had ever seen before. “Must you make this more difficult than it already is?”

Clarke makes an attempt at a light-hearted reply, “in the 13 years you’ve known me, I think you’ve grown more aware than anyone that I most definitely do.”

Abby’s smile, though brief, and the hand Clarke feels on her shoulder are indication enough that it worked.

The crowds thin as they make their way towards the innermost section of the city, and the roads eventually converge into one outrageously long paved pathway. Clarke grows uneasy with so few people around. People she understands. She can feel comfortable wherever there are people living their lives, trying their best to survive their conditions. They give her a point of reference. Something she can relate to, no matter where she is. She supposes that’s what makes her so uncomfortable with royalty. They lack the particular sort of humanity, the sort born from the struggle to get by, that Clarke finds herself at home with.

As Clarke and her mother make their way towards the pathway and over the bridge bringing them closer to the tree line, a boundary that separates the common from the worthy, she’s acutely aware of this vacancy. There are people, guards mostly, but the absence of the sort she understands is itself a presence she can’t help but notice. The Ark is never quite as filled with the life she had just seen in the inner district, but the life that is there doesn’t feel artificially constructed like it does here.

 “Why are we doing this?” Clarke eyes each of the men and women in uniform as they march by. She knows she’s yet to do anything wrong, but wariness of the royal guard is inborn where she comes from.

“The king needs a new doctor,” Abby’s voice is sure. The locking of her jaw and her rigid posture suggest she isn’t. “When someone needs help, we help them, no matter our personal feelings.”

“I know.” It was the tenet upon which she was raised, and the reason her mother never openly objects to her thievery. The Griffins help who they can, whenever they can, by doing whatever they can. That’s who they are. It just so happens that Clarke’s methods have manifested in a much more unorthodox way than her mother’s have, and than her father’s did.

That’s not to say that her mother is supportive of her guild membership, though. When Clarke admitted to her initiation, Abby couldn’t look at her. “You don’t have to put yourself in danger to be noble, Clarke” she had said. Clarke disagreed.

_You can’t heal someone without resources_.

Yes, Clarke needed to be doing what she was doing. Her mother didn’t see that, and that was okay. Annoying at times, especially when Clarke was being dragged all the way out to the royal palace in an attempt to get her more interested in healing, but okay.

She could play along for now.

For her mother.

To be supportive.

Clarke tries to steel her resolve and think optimistically. Perhaps the visits wouldn’t be all that bad. _Perhaps there’ll be some small and shiny souvenirs to take back._

**********

They stop just before walking through a set of the largest wooden doors either have ever seen up close. Two guards stand, one on each side of the entrance, stone-faced and eyes fixed forward.

Abby looks Clarke up and down for a moment before whispering, “I hope this goes without saying, Clarke, but please do not steal anything from the royal palace.”

“Who do you think I am, mom? Of course I won’t steal anything from the royal palace,” Clarke replies, offended at the notion as well as at the skepticism written all over her mother’s features. “Not without thoroughly casing the place first.”

Abby’s eyes just about bulge out of their sockets. She turns to face her daughter, no doubt to remind her of why saying something like that not twenty meters away from the nearest guards is the exact sort of thing she _shouldn’t_ be doing. One of the guards interrupts and spares Clarke the impending lecture.

“State your business.”

“I’m Doctor Abigail Griffin. His Majesty King Roark requested my services. This is my daughter who’ll be assisting me in his care.”

“Enter.”

When they do, Clarke releases an audible gasp she’s much too astonished to be ashamed of.

Clarke hadn’t even realized they could make rooms this large. She’d never considered smooth stone walls that wouldn’t threaten to collapse every few months, so different from the splintered wood and flimsy metal she’d grown up around. That light might reflect in such a way against the crystal hanging from the high ceilings had never crossed her mind. That people could live like this had never before been within the realm of Clarke’s imagination.

And they were still only in the foyer.

It’s beautiful, and vibrant, and overwhelming. Clarke can’t relate such an experience to any other before. Her eyes roam, her mouth agape, and she can’t bring herself to look at any one thing long enough to truly process it.

Then she sees a girl in a pretty dress who couldn’t be much older than herself walking down the marble staircase. Their eyes lock.

Hers a splash of green at war with a touch of gray.

And for a reason she can’t quite put a finger on, suddenly nothing else in the room seems all that interesting.

And Clarke finds something her eyes can rest on, if only for a moment.

Especially if it’s only for a moment.

Clarke realizes soon after that she’s found something she can compare to seeing the foyer.

**********

 

The first indication that Lexa made a mistake the previous night is the god-awful kink in the neck she wakes up to. She had fallen asleep reading an origin story that told of the sky falling in love with the earth, destined to meet her lover only at a single point, the horizon, for otherwise the power of their connection would consume all else. It was a lovely tale, truly, though Lexa remains unsure that it was quite worth the pain she’s currently enduring.

She tries to massage away the ache her in neck, stretches out the bundled up and cramped form her body took on without her permission at some point while she was sleeping, and opens her eyes. That’s when she sees the second indication that she should _definitely_ regret last night’s choices.

Having utterly failed to latch her balcony doors before falling asleep with her book, the morning brought with it an unwelcome guest. A songbird no larger than the size of her fist rests on the arm of the sofa directly opposite her, its head cocked to the side as if to mock her. The trespasser chirps as it jumps around, pleased with its success in breaching the impenetrable palace walls.

Lexa groans, setting her book aside, and attempts to stand. What she fails to account for is the third indication that her choice to read _just one more_ tale was a poor one, and as she rises the stinging numbness in her left leg brings her right back down, and she falls to the ground next to the sofa with a thud and an “oomph”.

The bird chirps, delighted at her misery.

There’s a knock at the door, no doubt an overworked handmaiden sent to fetch her for not rising with the sun. She releases another groan from her spot on the ground. Perhaps staying there until tomorrow and trying again next time would be her best option.

“Your Royal Highness, do you need‒ _Oh._ ” Veira enters the room prepared to assist her princess with her morning routine. Lexa hears rather than sees her stop dead in her tracks as she takes in the disaster of a scene before her. _There goes that plan._ Another groan, for good measure.

“Please reserve your judgment until after you’ve helped me up and gotten the bird out of here” she says, extending her hand upwards and waiting. It’s rude, but Lexa’s on the ground and her morning’s been absolutely dreadful. A little grumpiness should be warranted.

Veira rushes to her side and lifts her, making sure she’s steady before she releases. “Of course, Your Highness. I apologize.”

“Thank you, Veira.”

“A bird?”

“Apparently so. Shall we?” Lexa gestures vaguely towards the obnoxious little creature with one hand and holds her sore neck with the other.

“Oh, you mustn’t, Your Highness. I can do it on my own.”

“Of course you can, Veira. But it’ll be faster if I help you, and then you’ll be free to ready me for the day.”

The two stand awkwardly for a moment, both uncertain of how to go about escorting the unwelcome guest off of royal grounds.

Lexa takes an experimental step towards the songbird, and it immediately hops over towards the other end of her bedroom and further away from the balcony. A stubborn one then. _Brilliant._

Removing the offender takes the two an embarrassingly long amount of time. The longer it remains, the more determined Lexa is to prove that she was _absolutely not_ being outsmarted by a bird, and the more impassioned her attempts. She’s on the brink of climbing over her furniture, standing on chairs, and physically snatching the bird from its new hiding place on Lexa’s bedpost when Veira suggests she fetch a broom from the servants’ quarters.

Upon Veira’s return, Lexa takes the broom and immediately thrusts it up at the damned creature. It takes to the air, flapping around in circles and dodging Lexa’s assault with practiced skill. The girl follows the bird’s movements, attempting to direct it closer to the balcony doors. Its chirping, like a mocking war cry, steels Lexa’s resolve to best it. Broom extended upwards, jaw locked in place, she charges at her enemy, all the while electing to ignore the snickering she hears Veira trying to keep within.

Be it a stroke of good fortune absent from the rest of the morning’s events, or through sheer force of will, the princess triumphs and the bird dives down and out the doors to dodge her final thrust.

Veira’s quick to latch the balcony, turning to Lexa with downcast eyes and a poorly masked smile.

Lexa drops the broom and tilts her chin upwards in celebration of her victory, an action she immediately regrets when it strains her injured neck too far. With no dignity left to preserve, she merely looks at her faithful handmaiden, shakes her head, and lets out a chuckle at the absurdity of what had just occurred.

Taking it as permission to laugh, Veira doubles over in her revelry of having witnessed Princess Alexandria, sole heir to the throne of Trigeda, in battle _with a bird_.

Struggling to calm herself, Veira wipes a tear from her eye and smiles at her princess.

“Shall we begin, Your Highness? Titus is already having a fit at your tardiness, I’m sure.”

Lexa drags the hand not trying to soothe her pain down her face and sighs.

Titus.

Of course.

She could hear the lecture already.

_“Punctuality is the politeness of monarchs, Your Highness”_

Yes. Lexa _definitely_ should have stayed on the floor.

**********

Lexa feels human again for the first time that morning after washing, the warm water having soothed a bit of the pain and wiped the remaining sleep from her eyes. She thanks Veira profusely for her aid, recognizing that her being late that morning also put the servant behind schedule on her duties.

Titus comes to fetch her mere moments after Veira finishes brushing out her hair and straightening her gown, tarnishing what little peace she’s experiencing. Upon entrance, Titus dismisses the handmaiden and Lexa shoots her an apologetic glance before she exits.

He’s displeased, and it’s evident through the deep crease in his brow and the thinly veiled accusation in his eyes. Lexa’s familiar with this mood.

“I was up reading too late.” She thinks it best to smooth things over now rather than later, if only in an attempt to spare herself more trauma.

“I see.”

“It won’t happen again, Titus.”

Titus looks skeptical. Lexa doesn’t blame him. It’s almost certain to happen again. Reading is the only way she experiences life outside of herself, the only method through which she knows how to be familiar with what she doesn’t see. She doesn’t know how people expect her to rule over those she’s never been allowed to understand. Lexa reads in the hope that, when the time comes, her limited firsthand knowledge of what’s out there will at least be supplemented with what she learns in her books, if she is never to see it all for herself.

He doesn’t speak, but turns to leave the room. Lexa follows, mentally preparing herself for the day’s lessons. They move down her tower’s steps in silence.

He speaks again when they reach the corridor at the bottom “if you must spend all your time reading, Your Highness, I’d prefer it to be histories.”

“Are histories not just another sort of fiction?”

The question results in the exact outcome she knew it would, and the man launches into some tangent about the folly of man and the importance of proper documentation. Lexa’s able to tune him out, knowing she won’t be expected to contribute to the conversation for quite some time, instead attempting to focus on the path in front of her.

That task proves more difficult when a stranger in the foyer turns her head towards her and Lexa’s gaze meets a galaxy of blue that challenges her desire to see the world. She’s suddenly sure everything possibly worth experiencing resides here within this moment.

Perhaps Titus is right about proper documentation. If historians can’t accurately capture the clarity she finds within that particular shade, then there’s no point in describing it at all.

Something changes, if only for a moment, when Lexa becomes certain that everything she could ever hope to understand lives somewhere in a black cloak, yellow hair, and blue eyes.

Lexa realizes soon after that she’s never felt closer to humanity.

**********

The moment is ruined when Lexa notices Titus’s presence beside her once again, and she forces herself to tear her eyes from the blue-eyed girl in the tattered black cloak. She should definitely be listening to what he’s saying, or at least pretending to listen, but she’s distracted. Between her still-sore neck, the awful morning she’s had, and the mysterious pair standing in her foyer looking more out of place than the songbird in her bedroom, Titus’s moral lessons seem more of a chore than usual to pay mind to.

It’s the words “keep watch over your valuables, Your Highness” that draw her attention back to him.

“Why?”

“Your father’s new doctor and her girl are Arkers.” Her puts it plainly, as if that’s the only cause necessary to warrant suspicion.

“I’m sure they’re not all a part of the Thieves’ Guild, Titus.”

“You’re correct, Your Highness, but all do profit from their activities. None would be remorseful should we lose all we have.”

Lexa’s mostly certain that’s not actually the case, but has nothing to back up her supposition. She has no experience with the Arkers, and only hears vague descriptions of the Thieves’ Guild’s escapades once in a blue moon. What she is certain of is that the opposite scenario is absolutely true. No one in the palace would shed a tear should the Arkers lose what little they have. Some may pretend to care, some would celebrate the loss of the public nuisance and the eyesore of a district, but most would carry on, indifferent and unsympathetic to the loss of hundreds of people’s livelihoods.

Lexa doesn’t find it quite so dreadful, at least not as dreadful as Titus implies it is, to think that it’s possible the Arkers feel the same about the royalty. She doesn’t know that she’d blame them.

Naturally, those aren’t thoughts she’s welcome to share with someone like Titus. Or anyone, really. They defy expectations, and that’s the least proper thing a princess can do.

“Come along, Your Highness. We’re already behind schedule.”

She follows him down the corridors to the Grand Library, and wishes she were still small enough to sneak away and hide among the stacks until Titus inevitably gave up his search and let her read on her own for the rest of the day. Now it’d be even more ridiculous for the servants to find the heir to Trigeda daydreaming of faraway lands without kings or queens or royal advisors while resting among piles of books.

Titus gestures to one of the desks and Lexa sits waiting for him to begin. He paces in front of her for a time, as he always does, as if he’s just now considering how to start. Lexa knows for certain that he pours over his lesson plans weeks in advance, and suspects he’s only hesitating for the theatrics of it.

 “What are the three most important qualities a monarch must embody?”

“Wisdom, strength, and compassion” the answer is a reflex. This is how it always began.

“What happened to Queen Alexandria I?” Lexa should have known this would be the topic of conversation for the day; they only ever visited the Grand Library when Lexa was to be lectured on the mistakes or the virtues of her namesake. This question in particular was Titus’s favorite to ask. Each time Lexa said the same answer, and each time he grew more frustrated that it wasn’t the one he wanted.

“She was assassinated.”

“Why?”

“Because someone wanted to kill her.” _Here it comes_. Lexa’s played this game before.

“Your Highness,” Titus says, looking as disappointed as ever “she made a mistake.”

Now there’s something Lexa can agree with. Whenever she heard tales of her namesake, even the brutalities and crimes against humanity she committed were portrayed as heroic acts necessary to preserve the First Nation. Queen Alexandria I did much that ensured the survival of her people, but to paint even the atrocities as deeds to hold sacred and choices to aspire towards?

Lexa wasn’t certain she could love her name as most others did. Titus held a similar opinion, but for vastly different reasons.

The atrocities aren’t the mistakes Titus is referring to.

“She let her want to show compassion outweigh her wisdom and her strength, Your Highness. If she had been more heavy-handed in dolling out punishment, she would not have died as she did, and the First Nation would not have fallen.”

There many things Lexa desires to ask in response.

_“How is banishment of all social deviants compassionate?”_

_“Is it wise to value unity over human life?”_

_“Where is the strength in preserving the status quo?”_

_“Do you really think incessant repetition will make this lesson easier for me to accept?”_

Titus looks at her expectantly. She stays silent. Anything she could say in response would be either a blatant lie, or taken as an affront to all he stands for.  Anything she could ask has either already been answered to a degree that hasn’t swayed her opinion, or would be ignored outright.

She’s saved by the sound of footsteps and the clearing of a throat.

“I was hoping you’d be in here.”

Anya has her arms crossed over her chest and a smug look on her face when Lexa breaks Titus’s gaze and sees her mentor. The elation at having been saved in Lexa’s expression matches the frustration at having been interrupted in Titus’s.

“Anya.”

“Titus.” The woman regards him briefly before turning her attention completely on Lexa. “I came to fetch Her Royal Highness for training.”

Lexa moves to stand, much too eager to get very far away from another confrontation with Titus on the morality of her predecessors.

“Princess Alexandria was late to lessons this morning. We’ve barely begun, surely you-“

“That has nothing to do with me” Anya deadpans, still looking at Lexa rather than Titus.

“Fine. I suppose we can finish another time, Your Highness. Please try to be on time tomorrow. Punctuality is-”

 “Is the politeness of monarchs. Yes, Titus. We know.” She gestures vaguely in what looks like a dismissal, and Lexa can barely contain a chuckle.

Titus simply shoots a glare at Anya, bows his head in Lexa’s general direction, and stalks off.

“You know, if getting you out of Titus’s lectures keeps involving me actually speaking to him, I might start charging you for my services.”

Lexa can’t help but smile at the woman. While she doesn’t hate Titus like Anya does, seeing someone unafraid to challenge him is incredibly refreshing. “I’m sure there’s surplus in the royal treasury I can allocate to one willing to complete such a noble task.”

Anya shakes her head in amusement and gestures towards the exit. “So. A little bird tells me you went to battle this morning.”

**********

Clarke watches as the pretty girl moves down the staircase and into the large set of double doors adjacent to the entrance with the bald man in the black robes, and wishes she could suspend time. They maintain eye contact until the last possible moment, only breaking when the girl winces after trying to turn her neck too far.

 She wants to tell herself that she doesn’t care who she is, but the sneaking suspicion she has regarding the girl’s identity makes her uneasy. She’s bound to be royalty. And Clarke is in a hand-me-down cloak likely to fall apart any day now. _Wonderful._

She was probably judging her manner of dress. That’s all it was.

“Was that the princess?” She needs to know.

“I suspect so.”

“She’s… a person.”

Abby gives her daughter a sad smile. “They all are, Clarke. That’s the problem.”

Finally, a frazzled attendant shows up to escort the pair to the king’s quarters. They follow him up the staircase and through more hallways than should be able to physically fit in someone’s dwelling, all the while being informed of all the things they should and shouldn’t do in His Majesty’s presence. Clarke should be paying attention, really, but the royal palace’s many twists and turns are very tempting and Clarke is using all her willpower to avoid breaking away from the group and going off to explore places she shouldn’t.

“Here we are. The king and queen wait within.” The servant knocks on the door and, upon hearing permission from inside, opens the portal.

“Doctor Abigail Griffin and her assistant, Your Majesties.”

The pair enter the room slowly, both bracing themselves for what will likely be an unpleasant encounter.

The king lies on the bed, his back propped up with pillows, sweat-drenched and almost unconscious. He doesn’t look very kingly to Clarke. She doesn’t know exactly what she expected to see, but a man who seems like he could easily be found dying in a random alleyway back home absolutely wasn’t it. She averts her eyes out of respect for the people he reminds her of.

The queen, on the other hand, is almost exactly what Clarke imagined her to be. Long brown locks, each curl seeming to be held perfectly in place as if by some sort of magic. Steel gray eyes committed to hiding even the most nefarious of plots. Lips twisted upwards in a smile that’s likely killed before. No, Queen Alyna does not look like a woman whose husband could be dying. She’s the embodiment of power and control.

 She stands as they enter, hands clasped in front of her, pointed chin held high. Clarke and her mother bow.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. What started out as an innocent cough has escalated quite dramatically, as you can see.”

“May I?”

“Of course.”

Abby approaches the king’s resting place, the classic composure Clarke always admired slipping onto her features and into her posture effortlessly. Her mother becomes a different person when she’s with a patient. She turns into exactly who she needs to be. Level-headed, commanding, and certain. Clarke wonders if the skill is learned through many years of experience, or something inborn, the quality one possesses that tells them they’re destined for healing.

She knows it’s the second. Clarke is not a healer.

She wonders if it’s a strategy used more to comfort healers themselves, the patient, or the loved ones who look on helplessly.

She thinks it could be the first. But that situation was more complicated.

She knows it’s the third. Clarke’s been the loved one.

Abby’s voice is gentle when she rouses the king back to consciousness, “Hello, Your Majesty. My name is Abby, I’m here to help. Where’s the pain?”

“He can’t speak” Queen Alyna  chimes in from her position across the room, still standing just as she was upon their entry.

Abby moves her hands towards the king’s throat slowly, gently pressing against the sides. He winces in pain at the applied pressure. “Open your mouth, please, Your Majesty.” He obliges, and Abby peers down the opening after pushing his tongue down with a flattened stick she removed from her bag. “Clarke, I need to listen to his breathing.”

Clarke approaches warily.

“Lean forward as much as you can, Your Majesty. Clarke, help keep him held up.” They do as she asks, the king moving forward and Clarke gripping his shoulders to ensure he doesn’t fall. Abby lifts his tunic and presses her ear to his back. She listens to his labored breaths. “Cough if you can, Your Majesty.”

It’s the coughing that makes Clarke realize that she _really_ shouldn’t have come.

A rainy night, sweat-drenched pillows, a bloody handkerchief pressed against thin lips.

_You can’t heal someone without resources_.

She does what she can to distract herself from the memories threatening to rush to the forefront of her mind, thinking of home, her friends, the guild, the Ark. Everything comes back around to her dad, and tears she hadn’t let herself shed in years bubble to the surface.  

She can’t cry, she won’t. Not when her mom needs her. And certainly not when the queen’s eyes have been almost daring her to do something wrong, to be the vulnerable little Arker she’s expecting.

The inner district, the town criers, the hand on her shoulder, Clarke tries to ground herself in the present. The doors, the foyer, the splashes of green at war with a touch of gray, the past is done.

She is here, in this moment, in the palace standing next to her mother, holding the king’s shoulders. She is here, in this moment. She is here. She is _here_.

When Clarke comes back to herself, she’s still holding her arms outward for two shoulders that have likely been absent from her grasp for far too long. She lets them drop, and closes her eyes briefly, tuning back into her mother’s voice. When she opens them, the king has fallen back asleep and her mother’s in the middle of conversing with the queen.

“… I’ll return in two weeks’ time to check his progress, Your Majesty. Unless his condition worsens, there’s not much I can personally do outside of the treatment plan I’ve outlined. Should your staff need more clarification, I’m happy to return sooner if need be.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, thank you.”

Sensing the dismissal, Clarke and her mother bow before quickly exiting the room. The door’s barely had time to close before Clarke feels her mother’s hand gripping hers like it’s her sole lifeline. She loses track of who is lending strength and who is receiving it.

Maybe Clarke was right about a healer’s composure being just as much for them as it is for the loved one.

She thinks it still might be more complicated than that.

**********

They don’t talk about the coughing.

There isn’t much to say. And what should be said wouldn’t change what they both knew would happen.

Abby would continue to treat the king to the best of her ability, hiding all that his condition reminds her of.

Clarke would continue to accompany her mother, but she wouldn’t go into the room again.

Clarke didn’t realize before that what Abby needed wasn’t necessarily help with his treatment, but rather a hand to hold in the aftermath. Clarke could do that, for her mother.

But she wouldn’t go into the room.

Not when the coughing feels a little like a hammer at the walls Clarke built around those particular memories.

It’s the lack of talking that makes the walk home from the palace long. Clarke doesn’t mind. Not when even the anticipation of returning to the Ark fails to lighten the feeling of dread sitting at the pit of her stomach. The Ark is the last place she wants to be at the moment, but it’s also the only place she can go. It’s safe. It’s familiar.

Maybe that’s the problem.

 They move forward.

 Clarke notices the gradual shift between the area reserved for royals and that reserved for commoners. The homes get subtly smaller, the people just slightly less well dressed the further they walk. She thinks about the boundary back home. The narrow alleyway that separates the brick houses from the tin boxes stacked on top of one another, the children that have new shoes every winter that live on one side and those that run around barefoot on the opposite side. The line that separates the commoner from the other. She wonders why the gradual change stops there.

Eventually they make it past the line. Clarke hears her mother let out a breath she seems to have been holding for far too long. Clarke stops walking.

Her mother looks at her only for a moment before she understands. Clarke can’t go back to the shack. Not yet.

“Be safe.”

Clarke only nods before darting off. There isn’t a single place in this district she can go without feeling the absence of her father, but there is one she can go to work through it.

She weaves through the twists and turns of the district, navigating the narrow pathways like it’s second nature. The palace’s corridors were elaborate and confusing by design, but this was different. This was the result of people making their place and building their homes wherever they happened to fall. There’s no method to the madness, no organization to the chaos. And Clarke wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s freedom in resistance to structure.

Soon she reaches the heart of the district. The establishment that keeps the Ark alive. The place the “other” can rely on when all else have turned them away.

Headquarters is disguised as any other complex of stacked tin houses. On the first level, there are about seven entrances that lead to what look like normal shacks: dirt floors, cloth doors, furniture on the brink of collapse. The second level has five of these entrances, similarly furnished, and the third has four. One of these shacks on the second level has a secret panel along the back wall adjacent to an old cot that the sentry rests on, often pretending to be either sickly or drunk, depending on who was on guard.

Today it’s Murphy. A damp, dirty cloth is draped over his forehead, and he lays back on the bed with one arm covering half of his face. He cracks an eyelid when he hears Clarke enter the shack, and lets out a quick three-part whistle before closing his eyes again. Clarke waits, and soon the panel is opened from the other side.

Bryan smiles at her before letting her through the doorway and onto the makeshift platform. “You’re just in time. They’re about to start distribution.”

Clarke grins before turning away from him and she sees the inside of the closest thing the Ark district has to a warehouse, and what’s become her home away from home. It isn’t large, by any means, but it’s enough to house excess food stores, drinkable water, blankets, some clothes, and a few medical supplies that all help get the district through harder times. 

Constructed through the clever use of false houses, all just slightly smaller than normal, and a hollow inner structure supported by beams connecting the roofs of the shacks bellow and the floors of the ones above, headquarters is her father’s legacy. He was working on the plans just before he died, in an effort to protect the district should the royal guard decide to stage a raid. Jake didn’t want the young people putting themselves on the line for the rest of the Ark to risk hiding what they stole in their own homes. It’s saved the guild on more than one occasion.

Clarke moves towards the center of the room, where Bellamy is directing the younger members and checking through inventory one last time before heading out.

“You all know how this works. Households with kids, ill, and elderly go first. In that order. If there’s any extra bring it back here. Anyone that hasn’t received anything can come and request supplies” He waves his hand at her upon her entry.

Clarke nods to Monty and Jasper as they rush by her, each carrying two sacks containing food and fabric, likely racing to see who can make their deliveries and return faster.

She’s _definitely_ the fastest. When she grabs her own sacks and sprints full speed out of headquarters, proving it once again is her ultimate goal. Forgetting about her day and returning before the guards patrolling the district have a chance to see what’s happening are merely pleasant corollaries.

**********

Two weeks pass by with relative ease.

Clarke spends it training, mostly, working with the full members to hone her skills and get her ready for her initiation. Clarke spends hours of her days racing through the district with Bellamy, practicing lockpicking with Miller, and studying guard rotations with Bryan. When she isn’t training with them, she’s trying (and usually failing) to resist Octavia’s pleas to pass on everything she’s learning to the younger girl. Bellamy’s forbidden her from a life of thievery, but it hasn’t stopped the girl from trying.

She’s also ventured into the inner district almost every day since the visit to the palace. She tells her mother it’s to hear updates on the state of the nation. She tells her friends she wants to familiarize herself with the layout for future reference. She’s certain neither of those explanations is the entire truth.

Her mother isn’t summoned to the palace and she takes that as a good sign that her treatment plan for the king has helped his condition.

The guild hasn’t attempted another run, waiting for the dust to settle from their last trip out before planning a new one.

Overall, it’s a fairly uneventful set of weeks, which is likely why Clarke has a really stupid idea for their next trip to the palace.

She wants to _explore_.

And that’s the goal she has in mind when Clarke and her mother set off for their second visit to the palace.

**********

“Again!” Anya yells before tossing Lexa’s “blade” back at her. “We’re going until you disarm me.”

Lexa catches it and widens her stance for another round. They’ve been going for what feels like hours. When Anya mentioned charging Lexa for rescuing her from Titus, she hadn’t realized Anya meant the price would be paid in blood. Lexa’s no longer sure missing a lecture here and there is worth the bruises she’s acquiring from Anya’s newfound hobby of knocking her down. She’s tired, sore, and fucking starving, but Anya’s really not letting up, and her only hope of not wasting away is besting her mentor. She wants to get this over with and quickly.

She lunges forward, slashing at the woman, who evades the tactic while looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Is that your best?”

She grunts in response, driving forward again with a jab, Anya easily parrying it while stepping backwards.

They continue like this for far too long, Lexa aggressively trying to finish the match and Anya effortlessly denying her the victory while spouting off some sort of one-liner about her crippled grandmother being able to handle herself better in battle.  Her frustration grows, and in a desperate attempt to finish the match, Lexa spins around before slashing at Anya. Her weapon touches nothing but air, and the next thing she knows she’s on her back.

Again.

Anya crouches over her, thin-lipped and disappointed “You know what your problem is?”

The girl pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes.

“You lack any semblance of balance in your strategy. It’s either too passive or too aggressive. Your attitude dictates the moves you execute. You use defense when you’re calm and indifferent as to who’ll win, and exclusively offence when you’re riled up.”

“And how am I to fix that, exactly?”

“Do better.”

Lexa just glares at the woman, propping herself up on her hands.

“You need to separate how you’re feeling from the actions you take in battle.”

“You sound like Titus” she accuses.

Anya flicks her forehead in response, clearly annoyed. “Statements like that and yet you still wonder why I take pleasure in knocking you on your ass _._ ”

Lexa moves to stand, rubbing the spot on her forehead Anya assaulted. “Again?”

“Are you sure you’re up for it, Your Highness?” The tone is mocking, but she’s pleased. Anya’s left eyebrow is raised with the question, and a crooked smile is threatening to emerge, she’d been expecting Lexa to be done for the day. That she isn’t quitting early is surprising.

“I have to do better.”

**********

Her mother knows her well, and realizes that Clarke won’t be sticking around for this visit before they even arrive, making it easier for her to slip away before an escort comes by to take them to King Roark.

She mutters a quiet “be safe” before turning in the other direction, likely to give herself some sort of plausible deniability should Clarke get caught doing something wrong.

Clarke immediately takes off down one of the long corridors, not wanting to waste a single second of the exploration time she has.

It’s astonishing how empty the palace is. Clarke can’t wrap her mind around why so much space is needed for so few people to actually live in. She’s certain everyone in the Ark could fit here comfortably, and there’d still be room left over for more.

She’s also certain that if she hadn’t been caught wandering by one of the royal attendants mere minutes after she left the foyer, she surely would have gotten lost and her mother would have had to send one of the servants after her before she starved to death in some obscure corner of the palace.

“You there! I don’t recognize you” the servant takes a look at her clothes suspiciously “are you new?”

“I… yes. I’ve been assigned to the kitchen but no escort was sent to show me exactly where that is, or where… anything is, for that matter.” _Confidence is key, Clarke_.

The girl squints at her, as if measuring the likelihood of her statement. Clarke sends up a prayer she buys it.

Someone up there answers, and she lets out an exasperated sigh before saying “all the escorts in the world for every foreign ambassador and their mother, but God forbid _the help_ know where to find anything in this damned place.” 

“Yes, exactly!” Clarke’s enthusiasm is more at having not been caught in a lie, but redirecting the excitement to build up more of a rapport with this girl isn’t the worst plan she’s had.

“C’mon, I have some free time. I’ll give you a brief tour.”

The girl, Veira, shows her everything from the Grand Ballroom to the servants’ quarters, and Clarke is in awe of absolutely everything. No two rooms are quite the same, but everything is elaborate and regal and more than Clarke could have possibly imagined. There are more books in the library than Clarke knew were ever written, more unique paintings lining every wall than she had known images existed, and more rooms for more purposes than she had thought someone could ever be in want of, let alone in need of.

She wasn’t envious of the grandeur, per say. She loves home and the people there too much to ever desire after elsewhere.

But there’s nothing here that’s been touched by anything bad that’s ever happened back home.

Maybe that’s why she feels so out of place.

 You couldn’t look at a place like this and immediately assume pain outside of these colored walls was real. It’s an oasis. A place to hide. The crystal chandeliers and the tiled floors and the smell of fresh, hot food would make anyone forget that anything outside these walls exists.

 Maybe that’s what Clarke is envious of.

The freedom to forget reality lies here.

Their tour ends when they reach the kitchen. Clarke is endlessly grateful to her new friend for preventing her from getting lost, and expresses as much before Veira leaves her.

The kitchen is a long room with counters along each wall, doors on each side, and a long table in the center. The cook stands alone, stirring something into a pot when Clarke is led into the room. “The new girl?”

“…Yes.”

She points to the counter next to Clarke, where a large pile of expensive silverware lie haphazardly, “Count and sort them.”

Clarke, being the person that she is, takes it as an invitation that likely wasn’t intended. The pieces are heavy, and valuable, and they’re _right there_.

She does as she was asked, counting and sorting the silverware, only adding a step called “slip every tenth piece of each kind into your cloak’s inner pockets”.

The cook is distracted, humming along to some tune and completely oblivious, her back turned and facing the wall next to the door on the opposite side of the room. Clarke, on her end, is absolutely delighted. It’s not often she’s graced with opportunities like these. Silverware is easy to trade and, if too recognizable, easy to sell to a blacksmith willing to melt it down and repurpose the material. She’s almost finished with as much as she can carry, and just about ready to rejoice in the uncharacteristic luck she’s had today, when a voice coming from the doorway on the other end of the room stops her dead in her tracks.

“Ida‒” The princess enters the room, and looks wide-eyed at Clarke as she slips another  piece into her pocket. Clarke’s eyes flash in fear, she wasn’t feeling particularly keen on the idea of losing a hand today, and she freezes. There’s not much she can do at this point, she’s been caught red-handed _by the princess_ of all people.

Clarke is definitely losing a hand today. Hopefully they’ll let her choose her right one.

Ida, confused at the princess’s gaze and the dropped end to her sentence begins, “yes, Your Royal Highness?”, as she starts to slowly turn towards Clarke‒ whose still holding a fork that hasn’t quite made it into her pocket‒ following the girl’s eyes.

“Ida!” The princess’s exclamation stops Ida from turning, and draws the cook’s attention back on her instead. “Father’s doctor requests your presence. She… wants to go over some of the new restrictions she’s recommending.”

Clarke knows for certain that wasn’t true. Her mother had already done that on their last visit, giving all the specifications directly to the queen to pass on. If it were physically possible, Clarke’s eyes would have widened further upon hearing the princess lie for her.

“I see. Thank you, Your Royal Highness.” Ida steps around the girl, and exits through the door next to her.

Clarke doesn’t know why the princess just saved her, but she doesn’t want to give her a chance to change her mind. She shakes herself out of her trance, and turns to bolt out the door closest to her.

 “Wait.”

For the second time that day, the princess’s voice causes hesitation. She turns back to face the other girl, who’s approaching her slowly.

Clarke notices that the princess looks very different today than she did the last time she saw her. Her eyes are more green than gray, her skin shows a thin layer of sweat, her hair is frizzy and kept in place with a braid, and she’s traded in the pretty dress for a tunic, tightly-fitted trousers, and light leather armor.

She shakes her head, remembering the severity of the situation. She reaches into her pockets and takes out the silverware, pushing the pieces towards the girl. Clarke doesn’t like begging, but it might just be the only thing that can save her at this point. She begins, earnestly “Here, take it back. Just please don’t tell, my mom needs‒”

“No.”

Clarke would have been annoyed at the princess’s tendency to interrupt her if she wasn’t too busy being afraid for her life.

 “You don’t understand, I can’t… please, just take it back.” Clarke shakes her head, and pleads with all she has.

“No, I mean… keep it.”

Clarke is already preparing her next entreaty, while also considering the merits of sprinting away as fast as possible, when the princess’s suggestion finally registers in her mind

 “Wait, what?”

 “That’s the old set. Ida was to have them sorted and put into storage. No one will miss it. So, keep it.”

Clarke tries her best to ignore the implication that the royal family regularly goes through sets of silverware as nice as what she hold in her hands.

“Really? You’re not gonna have me thrown in the stocks? You’re not gonna take my hand?”

“That can be easily arranged, if you’d prefer.” The princess gives her a small smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood and ease the too-fast beating of her heart with a joke.

Clarke is dumbfounded. Mercy is not a quality she normally associates with royalty in general, least of all sarcasm. She didn’t actually think they could exhibit either. The confusion is evident in her voice when she says “well then, thank you, princess.”

There’s a flash of annoyance in her eyes, and Clarke remembers you aren’t supposed to address royalty by their actual titles. The princess surprises her again.

“Please. Call me Lexa.”

“Okay.” There’s a lingering silence that’s not entirely uncomfortable, and Clarke tries to read the other girl’s expression. That’s what she tells herself she’s doing, at least. She doesn’t normally look at people directly this long.

She remembers that the first description she came up with for her was “the pretty girl”. It’s still accurate.

“And you?”

 “Me?”

“What can I call you?”

 “I’m Clarke.”

After a moment, Lexa extends her hand out to her. Clarke looks at it and moves to take it before realizing that her own hands are both still occupied with the silverware she tried to push into Lexa’s arms. She considers her hands for a moment, not quite sure why her palms have gotten really sweaty even after establishing that she’s home free. Finally she drops what’s in her right hand, because obviously that’s the best course of action here, and takes Lexa’s in hers.

Lexa lets out a quiet laugh and Clarke knows that the effort of having to pick up what she dropped is worth hearing the sound.

“My mom might be done with your father by now.” She says, leaning down to gather what she’s been given. Lexa drops down to help her.

As she gets back up and hands the pieces back over to Clarke, she agrees, “it’s likely.”

“I should go.”

“As should I.”

“Right. It was nice meeting you, Your‒ Lexa.” Clarke moves to exit, before turning back around to add. “I suppose I’ll see you around?”

Lexa only smiles in reply.

Clarke starts off down the hallway, her pockets just a little heavier than they were when she entered the palace.

 She’s stopped by that voice for the third time that day. She wonders if it’ll become a habit. She wonders if she’d mind.

 “Clarke? Try not to get caught stealing anything again.” Lexa’s smile is bright and her tone is light and she’s looking at her like this part is more of a hello than a goodbye.

“Don’t worry. I never make the same mistake twice.” Clarke smirks at the girl before turning away again, and starts towards the foyer.

Maybe it was simply that the way she was saved also felt a lot like being caught.

Maybe it was simply the way her heart kept thumping just like it did whenever Clarke would help with distribution.

Maybe it was simply the way her name sounded like it was new and sacred coming from Lexa’s mouth. 

But, for whatever the reason, she realizes that, if she were being completely honest, she couldn’t find a single part of her that felt getting caught stealing from the palace by the Princess of Trigeda was a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this, folks, but here it is! please let me know what you think in the comment section, or shoot me a message on tumblr @justicarlexa
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's shown interest and supported this story, it's all for you. also, as always, huge shoutout to my wonderful beta reader Becca for being such an enabler for my addiction to this au.

It isn’t until Clarke’s retreating form is completely out of Lexa’s sight that she’s certain she has absolutely, positively made some sort of mistake by involving herself in what just occurred in her kitchen.

She’s not sure of what the mistake is, not exactly. But she knows it’s there. It has to be.

Lexa doesn’t do things without knowing why. She’s been taught better. _Monarchs must be able to justify every action they take._ It’s a lesson that’s been reiterated since before Lexa had formed any real understanding of why she was being taught such things. She knows it, but more than that, she believes it. The people cannot accept reasoning for policy if it doesn’t exist, and she wouldn’t expect them to. She’s grown used to making her decisions based on reason and good judgment. It’s a habit. A life-style choice. One that she never intended on deviating from.

And yet, Lexa cannot for the life of her find a tangible reason for helping Clarke outside of “every single part of me was screaming that it was the right thing to do”.

And that means it has to be some sort of mistake.

Lexa doesn’t know why she did it. And she doesn’t know why she doesn’t mind not knowing.

It was a mistake.

But Lexa couldn’t care less because she wants to see Clarke again more than she wants to know why she wants to see her.

And that terrifies her.

It’s in the spirit of bad decision making that Lexa walks directly towards her father’s quarters instead of tending to the rest of her responsibilities.       At least, on this occasion, she’s aware of why she’s making the mistake.

She navigates the halls with ease and familiarity, only stopping once to duck behind a corner when Ida emerges, confused, from her father’s room. Lexa knows Ida won’t bring up the lie, but she wants to avoid the inevitable awkward non-acknowledgement that it happened for as long as possible.

Her mother’s bodyguard, Gustus, is standing next to the door when she arrives, much as she expected. On most occasions, his massive form blocks the entire door. He’s been expecting someone.

He gives her a sad smile before addressing her “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”

"Hello, Gustus” She says, approaching the door slowly.

 If Lexa had come from another sort of family, it might go differently.

First, Gustus would step aside completely and let her through the door. She’d enter the room and notice the gentle breeze coming through the window, and find her mother sitting by her father’s bedside, perhaps reading to him as he lingered peacefully in a semi-conscious state. Her mother would smile warmly upon seeing her, beckoning her to stand closer. Lexa would approach, resting one hand on her mother’s shoulder and one on her father’s. They’d ask her of her day, how her sparring session with Anya went, and Lexa would tell them that it went horribly up until the moment it didn’t, and she finally managed to best the woman. She’d boast about it, describing it as more of an act of skill and dedication than pure luck.

Lexa might even tell them about the pretty girl that dropped a handful of precious dining ware just to shake her hand because, in this other sort of family, they wouldn’t mind.

They, in turn, would tell her of any updates on his condition, and she wouldn’t stop herself from crying either out of either relief or despair. Her father would rouse from his semi-sleepy state just enough to wipe her tears away. Then she’d climb onto the bed, curl up into his side, rest her head on his chest, and listen to his heartbeat until she stopped crying. Her mother would wipe the stray hairs from her face, humming a lullaby, and appreciating their little moment of togetherness, even if it happened to be tinged with sadness.

If she had come from another sort of family, it might go differently.

But she didn’t.

Instead, Lexa stands outside the door for a moment, Gustus keeping his eyes trained forward out of respect, before pressing her forehead and the palms of her hands against the wood gently and letting out a sigh, wishing more than anything that they were that family.

She wants to go inside.

She doesn’t.

With her eyes closed and her imagination halfway in another world, she asks “is she in there?”

“She rarely leaves.”

“Good. That’s good.” Lexa takes only a moment longer to say goodbye to her fantasy before pushing herself off of the door and turning to leave. “Please don’t tell her I was here.”

“I never do, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Gustus.”

**********

Clarke has been told two very specific things about royalty her entire life.

The first: they’re inherently selfish creatures who only ever act to protect their self-interests. Through her limited interactions with royals, and through witnessing her people’s run-ins with them, Clarke has never had any reason to doubt the truth of such a statement. Royals aren’t good people, and any good they ever do is a front for some ulterior motive. Clarke’s accepted it, and based her life around it.

The second: avoid them at all costs. This wasn’t ever a particular problem for Clarke. Royals don’t interact with Arkers unless absolutely necessary as a general rule, and both sides managed to keep it that way for as long as the Ark district has existed. For royals, dealing with people from the Ark meant lowering oneself to their level, and few wanted to risk it unless the situation was of dire urgency. For Arkers, interacting with the royalty, or the guards that preserve their status, meant you were in trouble, and trouble isn’t something anyone whose livelihood depends on the Thieves’ Guild can afford.

Royals are selfish. Avoid them at all costs. Lessons Clarke never had to learn to know.

Then Lexa happened, and all of a sudden Clarke finds herself putting conditionals on what used to be universal truths.

Royals are selfish (but maybe Lexa isn’t).

Avoid them at all costs (unless it’s Lexa).

It frustrates her to no end that suddenly all Clarke is sure of is that she wants to see Lexa again.

Getting back to the Ark is a simple enough task despite her inner turmoil, her mother seeming to be in much better state this time around as she informs Clarke that the king’s condition has improved, though not completely, and that she’d have to return in another few weeks. She struggles to pay attention to anything Abby tells her on their walk, Clarke much too focused on trying to decide what Lexa could have gained from giving her the silverware. By the time they’ve crossed the line, Clarke is no closer to an answer than she was when they first embarked, and she resolves herself to living without one. She doesn’t need to know why she still has the silverware to sell it.

They split up soon after returning to the district, Clarke immediately heading to headquarters to confer with Bellamy about the score, and Abby pretending she didn’t notice Clarke’s cloak hanging a little heavier on her frame than it did when they first arrived to the palace.

The first thing Clarke sees upon arrival is Octavia storming out of the room, a sight not particularly uncommon recently. The second is Bellamy shaking his head and looking downtrodden, something even less rare around headquarters.

Bellamy’s been protective for as long as Clarke can remember, intimidating all of the older kids around the district so much that her and Octavia grew up with relative ease. He’s hardwired for it. Backing people up is second nature to him. After Aurora’s death, though, his protectiveness over Octavia, especially, seemed to reach new heights. She became his responsibility more so than his sister. As such, she’s been blacklisted from partaking in any Thieves’ Guild activity. It wouldn’t be that much of a problem if it didn’t also ostracize Octavia from the rest of the young people living in the Ark, most of whom have made it a point to become involved in some capacity. Bellamy stops Octavia from fitting in, and that itself may be forgivable. But Bellamy also stops Octavia from helping, and that’s the worst thing you can possibly do to a Blake.

“You could just give her something to do, Bellamy. She wants to help.” Clarke feels for the girl, really. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she wasn’t able to aid her people.

“It’s too dangerous for her.”

“She’s gonna get herself wrapped up in this with or without your permission. It’s Octavia.”

He considers her for a moment. Clarke knows that he knows she’s right, but they also both know that he doesn’t have to like it. “Did you need something?”

Clarke smiles, letting the subject rest for now, before emptying her cloak pockets and showing him her score.

His eyes widen as he snatches few pieces from her hands, “where the hell did you get this?”

“Where do you think?” Clarke is undeservedly smug about the situation considering she was caught trying to lift the silverware. He doesn’t need to know that.

“Is the guard gonna come searching?”

“It was a gift.”

“Sure it was.” Clarke’s almost flattered that he believes her capable of pulling off a successful theft from the royal palace, but is too offended that he didn’t believe her explanation. “Take it to Sinclair. See if he’ll melt it down.”

“Alone?”

“You didn’t spend all that time in the inner district for nothing, right?” Bellamy hands the pieces in his hands back over to her. “Good work, Clarke.”

She beams at him before embarking on her journey, pleased at her assignment and hoping that what she’s done will help in some way, even if the impact is miniscule.

Her glee fades when she exits the stronghold and sees Octavia sitting by the door, her arms hugging her knees tightly against her chest and her chin rested atop her leg, refusing to meet her eyes.

Clarke looks down at her for a second before asking “do you want to go somewhere?”

Octavia turns her head towards her, eyes asking a question without forcing her to break the silent treatment she’s been giving Clarke for the last few days.

“I won’t tell Bellamy if you won’t.”

Octavia beams up at her before standing, “I knew you were my favorite for a reason.”

The two grew up together, living next to one another their entire lives. The Griffins and the Blakes are related by all but blood, and even that isn’t enough to stop them from considering one another family. Clarke and Octavia have always been close, but never closer than after the winter that claimed both Jake and Aurora.

The Blake siblings and Clarke dealt with it the best they could.

Bellamy threw himself into working with the guild, and in the process lost a part of the care-free nature he always used to possess.

Clarke shut away the memories of her father and refused to acknowledge what happened, then eventually followed Bellamy’s example and tried to ensure the district’s winters would never be so harsh again.

It was the hardest on Octavia. She lost her mother and her brother in one fell swoop, and wasn’t allowed to cope in the way her remaining loved ones were. She hadn’t been quite the same since.

However, as they embark upon their little adventure together, and as Octavia marvels at the unfamiliar sights with an expression much like the one Clarke wore on her first trip into the inner district, Clarke realizes that it’s definitely worth the potential trouble she could get in with Bellamy to see her friend so full of life again, even if her happiness is impermanent.

On their walk, Clarke tells her of the trips to the palace, of the sickly king and his terrifying queen, of the paintings on the walls and the crystals hanging from the ceilings. She doesn’t think she knows words enough to accurately describe it.

Then Clarke tells her of wandering the palace halls, of the kitchen and her attempted theft, and of Lexa. She knows she doesn’t have words enough to accurately describe it.

Octavia only laughs at her, “why am I not surprised that you of all people would start to crush on the princess?”

“I don’t have a crush on the princess.” Clarke insists, maybe a little too eager to be believable. She doesn’t even know the girl, not really, but the sudden heat she feels building in her cheeks suggests she may know enough.

She doesn’t have a crush. She has a curiosity. There’s a difference.

“You sound like my brother when he says he doesn’t have a crush on the baker’s girl.”

Clarke tries (and fails) to hide her blush, and smacks Octavia on her arm. “Shut up.”

Octavia swats back at her, then quickly jumps away from Clarke’s retaliation, and soon the two are chasing after one another in the middle of the busy marketplace, laughing as they try to dodge passersby.

The day is warm, and Clarke begins to regret her attire and the added weight of the silverware in her pockets, both making her chase more unpleasant, slowing her down and putting her a few paces behind Octavia at every turn. She grips the sides of her cloak awkwardly as she runs, trying to prevent the obnoxious clattering noise by holding all of it close to her body.

Clarke nearly runs straight into a scary looking man with a meat-cleaver, only ducking away from his massive form at the very last second.

Octavia just barely manages to jump over a chicken before she trips over it, looking back briefly to see if Clarke does the same. Clarke sidesteps it, luckily, but it costs her time, and she falls even further behind Octavia.

Eventually, when both run out of breath and need a moment to calm their laughter, they come to a stop and break free from the crowd. Doubled over in their mirth, clutching their stomachs, out of breath and smiling, the two wait to compose themselves before finishing their trip to Sinclair’s smithy.

When they arrive, the mood changes almost immediately, and their smiles drop as soon as they walk through the door and into the workshop.

The walls that used to be lined with tools and unfinished projects now stand bare. The trophies usually mounted and displayed are missing. The fire almost always burning has been out so long that the embers no longer smolder.

Sinclair stands with his back to them, sweeping the floor.

“Are you going somewhere?” Clarke’s worried. She knows how rare it is for a blacksmith to abandon their forge.

He turns his head to them slowly before returning immediately to his task. “Ah. Girls. I wasn’t expecting you by today.”

“What’s going on?”

He pauses for a moment before stopping to speak to them, leaning against the broom, “the crown requires my services elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“Ouskejon.”

Octavia opens up for the first time since entering the smithy, “they’re sending you away? They can do that?”

“The queen is trying to improve relations with other nations. She’s sending me as a part of an exchange program. It’s an ambassadorial position, they’ll provide a new forge, and there’s good coin in it. It’s not against my will by any means.”

Clarke couldn’t tell who he was trying to convince with his words. Even if Sinclair agreed and that’s why he’s leaving now, who’s to say he wouldn’t still be leaving if he didn’t? Inner district residents generally have more faith in the royalty than Arkers, but Clarke finds it slightly unbelievable to think that he genuinely supposes he has a choice in this matter. However, that’s not her main concern.

“Wait, what are we supposed to do?”

“I’m not the only blacksmith in the inner district, Clarke.”

“But you’re the only one willing to work with Arkers.”

“No, I’m the only one willing to work with the Thieves’ Guild. There is a distinction.”

“Not much of one.”

Most inner district residents aren’t much better than the royalty. They’re just as unsympathetic, and at times that’s even worse. Arkers rely on the marketplaces of the inner district, but most merchants refuse service to anyone looking like they could be from the slum. It doesn’t change Arkers’ need to survive, however, so theft is most times the only option, which then validates the initial discrimination, and the cycle continues.

Sinclair is different, and he always has been. When the Ark was first being established, he was one of the few willing to provide scrap metal to anyone in need of it. As conditions grew more stratified, he kept up his aid, forming a bit of an understanding with the Thieves’ Guild. So long as they didn’t bring trouble to his door, he would help where he could.

Clarke doesn’t know what they’re going to do without him.

“Look, tell the others that I’m sorry, but I’ve made my decision and this is what’s best for my family. I have a few contacts outside the city, I’ll see what I can do about finding someone willing to work with you. But that’s all I can do.”

“I understand.”

She doesn’t. But she knows it doesn’t matter.

She looks to Octavia, who’s fallen silent and wandered over to Sinclair’s now-empty work bench, and she gestures towards the exit once Clarke catches her eye. “Good luck out there, Sinclair.”

He smiles for the first time since they’ve arrived. “Thank you. You two try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

Octavia gives him the signature Blake smirk and says “never” before walking out. Clarke shakes her head and smiles at him before following her.

They walk for a while in silence, both unsure of how to talk about their encounter, and both feeling a whole lot heavier than they did on their way there. Octavia breaks the silence, succinctly describing what’s on both of their minds.

“Bell’s gonna lose it.”

**********

Eight days after she met Clarke‒ not that she’s keeping track‒ Lexa stands stick straight and tense before her door as she nervously awaits the summons she knows is on its way. It’s nearly time for her weekly chess match with Mother, and by now the attendant will have begun climbing the sets to her tower. If she listens closely, she can hear them slowly ascending, each footstep echoing like approaching wardrums.

There’s the knock at the door. Lexa takes a breath, smoothing over any lingering cracks in her countenance, and stepping into who she’s supposed to be. “Enter.”

“Your Highness, Her Royal Majesty awaits.”

Lexa nods, clasps her hands behind her back, and follows the attendant down the stairs and through the palace halls. As she makes her way she reviews strategies over in her head, considers the tactics her mother’s known to use, and does her best to prepare herself to the two-front war she’s about to engage in.

On one end is the game itself. She won’t win. She can hold her own, but winning isn’t an option, and her mother knows that. All Lexa has to do is appear as if she thinks she has a chance. The task will be simple enough, assuming the other battlefield doesn’t shake her facade of confidence too severely.

Therein lies the real challenge: focusing on the game enough to showcase her strategy and skill while also navigating her mother’s loaded topic of conversation. If she succeeds in both, and proves her skill in strategizing and politicking simultaneously, her mother will congratulate her on living up to her name, and they’d continue talking long into the night about matters less likely to put Lexa into an early grave. Her mother might even smile. If she fails, She’ll only stand and dismiss her after the game is over with a curt “Same time next week, Alexandria.”

It’s been some time since she succeeded last.

In all honesty, she misses her mother. She’s seen even less of her since her father fell ill, this particular match being the first time they’ll have spoken this week. However, such sentimental motivations won’t do. If anything, her desire to speak to her mother on a personal level will cloud her judgment and make her decisions irrational. Lexa does her best to push her emotions on the matter aside.

Sooner than she’d prefer, she’s standing outside of her mother’s boudoir, being announced by the attendant and ushered into the room. It’s a modest space, for a queen. The hues of red decorating the walls and adorning the furniture seem to glow more gloriously in the light of the fire burning, and Lexa think it may feel warm and inviting here if the mood of its occupants wasn’t so suffocating. The tea table sitting next to the bay windows has been cleared of its usual adornments, and her mother’s setting up the board when Lexa enters.

Queen Alyna stands to greet her, and gestures to the chair across from her. “Good evening, Alexandria.”

"Good evening, Mother.” Lexa bows her head slightly before approaching. “How are you?”

“I am well.” She keeps it short, finishes setting up the board, and looks to Lexa. “Shall we begin?” Lexa nods dutifully. “Your move.”

Queen Alyna rarely gives Lexa the first move, throwing her off immediately. Lexa’s used to being drilled on reactionary practices, but it seems tonight’s lesson will be about the importance of acting first. Afraid that her initial hesitation has already set her back in her mother’s eyes, she thinks of what the Queen begins with most often, and makes the move.

Her expression unreadable, the Queen considers Lexa’s move and reacts, her gaze never lifting from the board. They continue as such as they speak.

“Have you kept up with your studies of foreign etiquette, Alexandria?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Good. You’ll need it when you attend the First Nation ball next month. Trishana is hosting this year, but representatives from all twelve nations will be there.” First blood is drawn, Lexa loses a pawn. “How does that change your behavior?”

Lexa considers the board before answering, “I’ll give priority to Trishana’s decorum in the public sphere, but in private discussion cater my behavior to the customs of the individual I’m speaking to.”

“And if you’re addressing a group?” The Queen moves her rook, a piece she rarely utilizes for more than sacrifice, and Lexa fumbles to regain her grasp on the game.

“Act based on the relative importance of the group’s members.”

“Importance in what?” Lexa’s on the defensive on both fronts, trying to recover from the initial shakeup of starting while also being questioned on her word choice. This wasn’t going well, and in her desperation to regain control, Lexa makes another misstep.

“Rank.”

“Not if it means compromising your goals, Alexandria. The most strategic target doesn’t necessarily have a status that reflects it. Make sure to accommodate that, especially when the task at hand is as imperative as our own.” Her tone isn’t condescending necessarily, but that she’s feeling the need to correct Lexa at all makes the girl feel small.

She could put herself out there, and challenge her mother, in the hope that her daring would impress her.

She could say that rank must be respected should the ultimate goal be pleasing the rulers of the twelve enough to bring back the First Nation.

She could assert the importance of respecting the differences of the nations if one expects cooperation.

She could argue that underhanded tactics shouldn’t be the go-to method to accomplish unity.

If she were feeling particularly brave, she could even say that striving for an official alliance seems a more worthwhile goal considering the seeming unattainable nature of complete unity.

But that would put her at risk of feeling smaller should her mother say something akin to “don’t let your idealistic nature prevent you from achieving the greatness you’re destined for, Alexandria.”

And Lexa doesn’t need another repeat of that conversation.

Instead, “yes, Mother” is all she says as she makes a play for her mother’s remaining bishop.

Lexa realizes soon that she’s losing both the game and the psychological warfare, and that her only chance of redeeming herself even slightly is to do something desperate, unexpected, and probably a little bit stupid. So, as her mother examines the board carefully to consider her next move, Lexa asks “are you to leave Father alone to accompany me to Trishana?”

Queen Alyna’s eyes shoot up from the board for the first time since they’ve started playing, and her hand visibly waivers midair. Time suspends momentarily, and Lexa feels the cold and steely grey of her mother’s eyes like daggers in the deepest parts of her mind, but Lexa won’t let her gaze wander. Her question could be interpreted in one of two ways. Either the Queen could recognize it as an opponent’s attempt to throw her off her game, in which case Lexa would win some respect as clearly her gambit worked, or she could write it off as an inquiry from a simple girl with concern for her father’s wellbeing.

Deep down Lexa knows it’s both.

At that thought, she feels herself swallow, and her fate is sealed.

Queen Alyna returns her eyes to the board and sets the piece down where she intended originally. “Alexandria, you should know by now that nobody, not even those we care about, can come before what we mean to attain.”

"Yes, Mother.”

She holds out for another three turns before Queen Alyna bests her.

The Queen rises and says, vacant of any emotion at all, “same time next week, Alexandria.”

Lexa leaves wondering what it’d be like if that room were ever as warm as it’s supposed to be.

**********

“They say if you’re wandering along the borders after dusk, the Maunon will snatch you up and take you back to their lands, leaving you wandering in the woods on the other side of the mountain until you either die or forget everything that ever made you human.”

Clarke rolls her eyes as she turns in her chair to see Murphy kneeling in front of Charlotte. He’s deepened his voice and put on a crazed look in his eye, clearly trying his hardest to frighten the young girl. “If you’re done trying to scare children, please come deal.”

His façade drops as his voice goes back to normal, “hey now, I’m only trying to get her prepared for the real world.”

“And telling her about monsters that go bump in the night is going to do that… how, exactly?”  

Jasper chimes in from his seat across the makeshift card table they’ve constructed, “Clarke’s right, the only monsters she needs to worry about around here wear uniforms and say things like ‘Hey come back here! Defacing public property is a crime against the crown!’”

He looks around the room with a stupid grin on his face, clearly waiting for the laughter that just isn’t coming. Clarke visibly cringes, Murphy rolls his eyes, Harper and Monroe avoid his gaze, Charlotte looks utterly lost, and Monty slaps a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, shaking his head, and says “too real, Jasper.”

His smile fades slowly. The awkward silence, unfortunately, does not.

After an unbearable couple of moments, they’re saved by a three-part whistle at the door. Clarke jumps up to get it, and opens the hatch find Bellamy, looking even more stressed than usual.

“Sorry I’m late, everyone” he says, brushing past her and removing his cloak before finding an empty seat at the table.

“Gina keep you longer than usual?” Murphy teases as he shuffles the deck.

He ignores what Murphy is implying, clearly not in the mood, and he looks at the cards he’s been dealt. “I was helping some people get settled into a few of the false shacks.”

While the others are still laughing at Murphy’s jab and beginning their game, Clarke’s focus remains on what Bellamy said. “I didn’t know we were getting any new people in the district.” In a community as small as the Ark, everyone knows everyone. New arrivals tend to stand out.

"They’re not new.” Bellamy clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Three families from along the border have been relocated. I’ve moved them in until we can set them up somewhere else.”

Conversation stops immediately. Everyone but Bellamy looks up from their cards.

“Relocated?”

“Yup.”

“How can they do that?”

“With a royal decree and some coin for compensation so no one complains that it was forced removal.” Bellamy’s tone is much too bitter for the casual manner in which he lays down a few cards and looks to Miller to take his turn.

“Only three families? What do they hope to do by moving three families?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

“What can we do to help, Bellamy?” Monty asks, eager as ever.

The oldest of the bunch shakes his head as he considers the question. “I really don’t know. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. With Sinclair gone I have no idea where we’re supposed to get material enough to build them all new shacks on the backend of the district. We might have to make a few more runs than usual.”

Silence falls over the group.

More runs, more risk.

As much as every member of the Thieves’ Guild desires to contribute to the cause, there isn’t a single one that doesn’t also fear that every trip out may be their last. They’ll do what must be done. They always do. But that doesn’t change the fact that reprisal for the crimes they commit to survive always feels just around the corner.

Clarke thinks about what it’d be like if they didn’t have to risk their lives to live their lives.

After some time, Miller breaks the silence. “Hey, the problem will still be there tomorrow, right? Let’s just focus on the game, have some fun, and pretend we all don’t know that Jasper comes to these things with an ace tucked into his sleeve every week.”

“That was one time!”

Laughter erupts from all around the table, and the heavy kind of tension that threatened to suffocate the group moments before fades almost instantly.

The pressure lingers, but they carry it together. And that’s enough.

This life is worth the risk.

**********

Lexa’s barely made it through her room’s door after her chess match when Anya’s barging in. She hadn’t heard her on the steps to the tower, and she might say as much if she didn’t know for a fact Anya would respond with something like “are you trying to die? Pay more attention to your surroundings.”

“Get changed. We’re leaving.”

“Good evening, Anya, it’s always lovely to see you.” Lexa pinches the bridge of her nose as she collapses onto the sofa.

She tugs Lexa back to her feet by her arm “good evening, Your Highness. Get changed. We’re leaving.”

“Can we do this another time? I haven’t had the day for it.”

“That has nothing to do with me.” Anya deadpans. Lexa thinks that line is much more amusing when it’s not being used on her.

“I should have you thrown in the stocks for the way you speak to me.” She would never, in truth. There are times when Anya’s banter is the only factor in Lexa’s life that makes her feel normal.

“You’d need the guard’s loyalty to do that, which is why you need to get changed. We’re leaving.”

She sighs as she ambles over to her wardrobe.

Lexa had been looking forward to being introduced to some of the Royal Guard. When Anya initially came up with the idea, she said very explicitly “soldiers must have as much faith in you as you have in them, otherwise they won’t follow.” While she can’t form personal relationships with every member of Anya’s forces, Anya hopes that seeing at least a few of them in an informal setting will help to humanize those that Lexa will eventually lead, while also instilling the idea that Lexa maintains a presence even in places they wouldn’t necessarily expect. It’s not an awful plan, and the girl was quite on board with it. Before tonight, that is.

After failing miserably with her mother, Lexa’s not so sure of her ability to work her way into the guard’s good graces. If she’s not capable of seeming queenly enough to impress her mother despite being groomed for it her whole life, why in the world would she be capable of seeming human enough to relate to those she’s never really encountered?

Anya notes her hesitation on their journey towards the barracks. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not.”

She is. But Lexa’s gut reaction to being accused of emotion is denial.

“You’re lying.”

“I am not.”

“You’re not even lying well.”

Lexa does her best to shoot daggers with her eyes at the woman. Soon, though, Lexa softens. She doesn’t need to hide from Anya. The woman would just drag her out of the lie anyways. “I’m thinking that this may not be a good idea, Anya. It could shatter their image of their future queen.”

“What image is that? Intimidating, out of touch, and otherworldly?”

She considers the adjectives for only a second. “Yes.”

Anya scoffs before looking at the girl. “You had your chess match tonight, didn’t you?”

Lexa only nods, really not wanting to broach the subject.

“I can tell. You’re always the most like her right after you’ve seen her.”

Lexa knows Anya doesn’t mean that as a compliment. She wishes she wanted to take it as one nonetheless. In truth, the comparison makes her nauseous. She tries to divert the focus away from herself. “Speaking blasphemy against the Queen of Trigeda is a capital offense, Anya.”

They close in on the barracks, Lexa can see the entrance from a couple hundred paces away.

“Somehow I think I’ll be spared the punishment. Your mother needs me.”

"For what?”

Anya’s response isn’t the “to train you, you idiot” Lexa is expecting. Instead, she stops, just before getting to the doors. Lexa follows suit, suddenly concerned at her mentor’s unusual demeanor.

Anya turns to face her, rests her hands on both of the girl’s shoulders, and drops her head to eye level. “You still have time, Lexa. Make sure to use it.”

The moment is over before Lexa has time to consider what really happened, and Anya’s already stalking over to the entrance and being let through the door, ushering Lexa over with a hand gesture.

Lexa waits to enter, stopping in the doorway when she hears a rowdy chorus of “Aye!”s erupting from the common area of the building. Anya breaks out into smile, greeting everyone that comes to her with a firm handshake. Lexa recognizes only the Guard Captain, Indra, among the crowd. The rest are a ragtag bunch scattered around the random assortment of mismatched chairs, sofas, and bunks occupying the space. They’re all drinking some sort of ale, talking and laughing amongst themselves, and seeming to have a good time. She’s never been in a setting like this before, and Lexa decides almost immediately that she likes it.

It isn’t until Anya looks back to her that they’re cognizant of her presence. The guards that first notice her immediately jump up from their seats, set their drinks down, and stand straight at attention. The rest follow suit as soon as they realize what’s happened.

Lexa wishes she could go back to being unseen.

From her position on the far end of the room, Indra addresses her “Your Royal Highness, we didn’t realize you would be coming, I apologize for the state of the barracks.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, Guard Captain, I‒”

Anya cuts her off “Indra, be honest, the barracks are usually much worse than this.” Someone lets out a chuckle from the area around the card table before they can contain themselves. “Besides, we’re not here in an official capacity. Our dear princess needed a night away from the palace. Isn’t that right, Lexa?”

The emphasis Anya puts on her chosen name helps center her in the task at hand. It’s never used in front of those subservient to her, if at all.

Lexa’s reminded that she wants to be something more than her name, even if that means being something less.

"Yes, I don’t mean to impose.” Lexa says, doing her best to drop her posture and lower her practiced aura of control. “Carry on as normal, please.”

The guards look skeptical at first, but slowly come out of their rigid stances and continue on with the conversations they were having before noticing Lexa, though she swears she notices them being slightly more reserved in their mirth.

Lexa tries. Really.

She’s eventually able to coax herself away from the wall next to the entrance, but doesn’t find it in herself to leave Anya’s side the entire night.

She doesn’t say much, not thinking of anything worthwhile to contribute to the conversation. She smiles at the appropriate times, though. At least she hopes she does.

Now that she’s considering it, it may have come off as more of a grimace. And she may have done it when she wasn’t supposed to. Thinking of such things is mortifying, and she tries to push those particular thoughts out of her mind before she manages to convince herself that she’s absolutely guilty of both.

Overall, Lexa feels out of place among the laughter. She wonders if she stands out as much as a thief in a palace foyer, or a songbird in a bedroom. She thinks she might.

Lexa doesn’t belong in a place like this, she realizes.

No matter how much she might want to.

**********

That night, as Veira stands behind her braiding her hair before bed, Lexa looks out into the darkness from her tower window and thinks she would cry if she knew how.

She’s disappointed two of the most important people in her life tonight: her mother by being too human, and Anya by not being human enough.

Lexa’s tired.

She would cry if she knew how.

But that’s the problem.

If Lexa knew how, she might not even need to. If she knew how, it would mean she wasn’t raised to resist such things. If she knew how, it would mean she might be normal enough to relate to people. If she knew how, she might not feel like a tightly wound spring sits in the center of her chest where her heart should be, the ends getting closer to snapping back together every time they’re pulled further apart when she has to let something out but can’t.

If Lexa just knew how to cry, she might not even need to.

She doesn’t realize Veira’s been talking to her until she hears, “your father’s health is improving.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He’s even speaking again.” Lexa thinks she might be trying to make her feel better, and she appreciates it until she realizes she’s lying about at least part of it. “He wanted me to send you his best wishes.”

“You and I both know he didn’t say that.”

“He would if he could, Your Highness.”

He wouldn’t risk a personal appeal like that with her mother near him, and there’s no chance she’d let someone tend to his care without watching them like a hawk. Lexa knows her mother prefers her presence intimidate people into treating her husband correctly over simply trusting anyone. No, her father hasn’t sent some sort of message.

“I’m surprised she lets you attend to him.” There’s a lull in the conversation before Lexa decides to continue her thought. “She won’t let me see him. She doesn’t want my worrying about his condition to interfere with my studies.”

“Maybe this is her way of giving you some sort of connection.”

“It’s her way of seeing whether or not I’ll use you to contact him, Veira. She’s testing me.” _She always is._

“She’s not a bad woman, Your Highness.”

“Of course not. She’s everything I’m supposed to be.”

Veira’s almost finished with her braid when Lexa spots a lantern and two figures on horseback embarking from the palace along the road below. One is a woman wearing a red cloak, she can’t make out her face. The other, the man that carries the lantern is‒

“Gustus?”

Veira stops moving her hands and looks out the window. “Your Highness, you must be mistaken. Gustus doesn’t leave the palace unless‒”

“Unless Mother does.”

Lexa doesn’t know what would call her mother away from the palace at such an hour, let alone without a full accompaniment of guards, especially while her father’s ill.

She determines, as she bids Veira goodnight and crawls into bed, that she’s unlikely to figure a solid answer with her limited knowledge of her mother’s dealings. Lexa files the knowledge away in the back of her mind, noting it as a future curiosity to inquire upon.

A problem for another day.

**********

One morning, days later, still lamenting over what she’s convinced was the most humiliating social encounter she’s had, Lexa considers doing something she shouldn’t.

As she ventures towards the palace’s cellars, she recognizes that it’s not a serious consideration. She won’t go through with it, not really. But she could, in theory.

If she really wanted to, she could do it.

She could run. No one would notice until she was already half way to wherever she decided to go, she’s certain. She’d find a place without chess boards and fires that burn heavy instead of warm and where there were no expectations she felt she’d be betraying herself to fulfill.

She could run. Part of her even wants to.

The other part doesn’t think a place like that exists. And if it does, she doesn’t think she’d fit in there.

No. It’s not a serious consideration.

Lexa doesn’t even know where she’d run to.

She still opens the door to the cellar, hoping to bring herself a little closer to wherever that place is. She doesn’t expect to run into something solid as she steps through, and it knocks her backwards.

Or, rather, _she_ knocks her backwards.

“Clarke?”

Lexa blinks away her surprise as the other girl rushes to help her up. Lexa notices immediately that she’s forgone the cloak today, instead opting for an old tunic and plain trousers that look a bit small on her.

“Oh. Uh… hi, Lexa. Nice to see you again. Sorry about the… yeah, I should go.” Clarke moves to step around Lexa, but she blocks her path.

“Do you make a habit out of being where you shouldn’t?”

“Yes.” Lexa chuckles at the immediacy of the answer. She doesn’t know many people who say what they mean so directly. It’s refreshing, and honest. Lexa admires that.

“Were you looking for something?”

“I wasn’t stealing anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” The defensiveness of Clarke’s response doesn’t instill comfort, but Lexa can’t find it in her to mind.

“I wasn’t.”

"Oh. Well, I was just exploring.”

Finally, Lexa lets Clarke pass. Instead of splitting up, though, they start walking through the palace together. Clarke’s eyes never seem to linger on any one thing for too long, and Lexa’s taken aback by the wonder she sees written on her face. Lexa’s never seen the palace with fresh eyes before, and doesn’t usually interact with people who aren’t accustomed to places like it. The reaction surprises her. It’s endearing.

“So, did you find anything worth seeing?”

“There’s a big hole in your cellar.” Lexa does her best to stop herself from laughing at the matter-of-fact way Clarke says it, certain that laughing so much in casual conversation is against some unspoken rule, but she fails. She can’t keep the amusement out of her voice, either.

“It’s a tunnel, actually.”

“To where?”

“Everywhere.”

A relic of the First Nation, the tunnel in the cellar leads to an underground system of roads that used to span across the land. They were constructed in an effort to ease travel and transport from end to end, bypassing the difficulties that come with varied terrain, and acting as a symbol of unity that it embodied. The entrance under Trigeda’s royal palace is the only one still open after the First Nation fell, all others being sealed from the inside as tensions grew and as the region’s remaining leaders stopped trusting one another with unfettered access to their lands.

“Have you ever used it?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

She thinks about it every day. It’s only times like now, times she can’t fight the prickly sensation that’s always lingering just under the surface of her own skin, that she risks a venture down there. The suggested freedom, the illusion of choice that she gets whenever she stares into the dark depths of the tunnel… it makes her feel better. She knows she doesn’t have options. But it sure is nice to pretend.

Lexa doesn’t understand why she gets the same sort of relief by talking to Clarke.

They come to the end of the corridor, and Lexa knows they should probably split up here. She doesn’t seem to be able to control herself around Clarke though, and asks, against her better judgment, “do you want to see something?”

Clarke only gives a mischievous grin in reply, but it’s enough, and Lexa leads Clarke towards one of the palace exits.

**********

They walk in silence, mostly, but it’s not the lonely sort Lexa is used to.

She doesn’t quite know what to say to Clarke, but she asks what the girl did with the silverware, and tries her best not to be too offended when she says she had to bury it for fear of the guard coming to reclaim it.

Lexa knows Clarke has no reason to trust her, and that she has no reason to be upset that she doesn’t. But she wants her to.

They finally come to the stables, an area just off the main palace grounds that Lexa frequents whenever possible. Clarke’s blue eyes grow wide upon seeing the horses. Lexa can’t tell if her reaction is more out of awe or fear.

The stable boy, Wells, hurries over when he sees her. “Your Highness, I must have made a mistake, I thought your riding lesson wasn’t until tomorrow, I’m sorry.”

“You’re right, Wells, there’s no need to apologize.” She pauses and gestures to the other girl, “this is Clarke.”

“Good to meet you, Clarke.” He says before turning his attention back to Lexa. “Should I take you around to see him, Your Highness?”

“Please.” He nods before leading them into one of the stalls.

“Holler at me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Wells.”

Lexa turns around to face her horse, and sees Clarke nearly pressed up against the wall on the other side of the stall out of the corner of her eye. “You can get closer. I promise he won’t hurt you.”

“I’ve never seen one before.” Lexa suspected as much, which is part of the reason why she brought her. Clarke approaches warily, and gently touches a hand to the large grey horse’s side. “What’s his name?”

Lexa almost doesn’t want to answer. She considers making something up as she brushes through his long mane before she resigns herself to telling the embarrassing truth. She mumbles out the answer. “His name is Pauna.”

“You named your horse Pauna?”

The disbelief in Clarke’s voice puts her on the defensive, and she’s absolutely too eager to justify the name. “To be clear, I was six and they told me I couldn’t ride real Pauna, but wouldn’t explain why. I had to prove them wrong somehow.”

Clarke lets out a laugh that ends much too abruptly for Lexa’s taste when Pauna sharply exhales. She jumps back at the noise, clearly not expecting it, and Lexa grins. Clarke shakes her head as she resumes her space next to Lexa, this time much more comfortable with touching the animal.

Lexa’s glad she doesn’t feel pressured to say anything at all. She’s sure she’d say the wrong thing if she tried, so she’s fine with waiting for Clarke.

Eventually, Clarke does break the silence. “Lexa?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any friends?”

She stops moving her hand along Pauna’s mane immediately, and begins to doubt that the silence was as comfortable as she thought it was. Clarke must have noticed her inability to behave properly in a social setting. She’s done something wrong, all she can hope to do is figure out what it is so she doesn’t make the same mistake again. “Why?”

Clarke waits an excruciatingly long amount of time to answer the question and, if Lexa weren’t intentionally avoiding her gaze, she’d look back to check if she was still actually there. “Being lonely seems like the only explanation for why someone like you would be nice to someone like me.”

Lexa wants to say a lot of things, but that’s nothing new.

She sticks with “it depends”, the closest thing to the truth she can say. The honesty is new.

“On?”

“If handmaidens and royal advisers count as friends.”

She expects Clarke to laugh at her.

She’s glad she doesn’t.

The silence returns, and Lexa thinks she’s safe to move, going back to brushing Pauna’s hair. When Clarke breaks it again, she stops more abruptly than last time, and turns looks at her like she’s fallen from the sky. “I’ll be your friend.”

She’s at a complete loss for words, and once again the casual nature of Clarke’s statement throws her off. It doesn’t make sense to her, not really. Lexa’s never considered friendship something she could possibly offer someone, let alone something someone would want from her.

Her confusion must be clear, though she’s unsure of how that could be considering Clarke isn’t even sort of looking at her, because Clarke continues. “You can tell me all about all the wild things you royals get up to when no one’s looking. And I can teach you valuable life skills like how to cheat at cards and pick a lock.”

For a reason unknown to Lexa, Anya’s advice from the other night rushes to the forefront of her mind.

_"You still have time, Lexa. Make sure to use it.”_

 Her mentor’s words are what’s on her mind when she says, “I can teach you how to ride him someday.”

 Clarke meets her eyes, and Lexa thinks her smile singlehandedly brightens the dimly lit stable.

 There’s something binding in the gaze they share then, Lexa realizes, a sort of contract signed in that moment.

 She’d choose this mistake again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I say this a lot but I'm sorry for the wait on this one, it took longer than expected. The length also got a bit out of hand, so I'm sorry about that too. But, as always, thank you for your continued support and interest in this story, it means so much to me. Also a huge thanks goes to my beta reader, Becca, for being such a trooper and enduring the incoherent babbling that I direct at her before I can properly form sentences and write a chapter.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to let me know what you thought in the comment section below or through an ask on tumblr, I love validation. I'm also always happy to answer any questions you may have, so don't be afraid to contact me.
> 
> P.S. I listened to "Promise" by Ben Howard a lot writing this chapter, it's worth a listen if you've never heard of it.

It starts simply.

A few visits here and there, first only on Clarke’s biweekly trips to the palace. She’s just getting used to the routine when Lexa goes away to Trishana for three weeks, and it’s over a month before they see each other again. After her return, and without noticing how it happened, Clarke eventually finds herself there often enough to know exactly when Lexa’s most available. They don’t discuss the increased frequency of the visits.  

It takes only a card game or two before Clarke learns that Lexa is much better at bluffing than she expected from the princess, and she stops going easy on her. She blames her desire to keep going back on her competitive streak; she can’t let a loss go unavenged. Clarke wonders what made Lexa so good at lying. She might be impressed if she didn’t have a feeling that it’s not a source of pride for the girl.

After some time at the stables, Lexa finally deems her ready of learning how to ride. The decision confuses Clarke at first, knowing very well that most of the time she’s there she’s only pretending that she’s not genuinely terrified of the massive creature Lexa expects her to sit on, or trying to figure out why the stable boy side-eyes her every time he thinks she’s not looking. However, determined to appear unafraid and perfectly capable of doing everything stuffy royalty can, she agrees that the next time they visit the stables together will be Clarke’s first time on a horse, no matter her secret reservations.

They take many walks around royal grounds, and Clarke is blown away by the sheer expanse of it all. She promises herself that she’ll see it all someday, especially keen on navigating through the wooded areas along the borders.

Despite Lexa’s assurances that they won’t be bothered, Clarke can’t help but feel on edge every time she sees a guard in the distance. She confronts Lexa about it one day, who says only “we aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“Have you forgotten that I’m not supposed to be here?” she wouldn’t blame her, as often as their visits occur, it’d be easy to forget that they’re not meant to be happening at all, especially for the girl who isn’t breaking the rules.

“I thought you liked being where you’re not supposed to.” The barely-there smirk on Lexa’s face as she keeps her eyes trained forward and her pace continuous inspires only a scoff in response. She lets her smile fall and Lexa finally looks to her. “As far as the staff knows, you’re only doing your job. A serving girl or a handmaiden I’ve recruited to accompany me.”

Clarke stops walking immediately, jaw locking into place and arms coming up to wrap around her chest. Lexa stops when she notices, her hands dropping from their position behind her back as she turns to face Clarke. “I’m not a servant.”

The princess starts scrambling almost immediately, “I know that. I didn’t mean‒ I wasn’t trying to imply that‒ my intention wasn’t to offend I‒” Clarke doesn’t let her gaze waver, and she sees Lexa’s shoulders seem to slump. Her voice drops lower, “You’re right. I only meant to assure you that you have nothing to worry about here. But I apologize for the insensitive comment.”

As familiar as Clarke’s become with Lexa’s bluffs, she knows she’s being sincere. She almost wishes she wasn’t so that she’d finally be able to write her off as the same as all the others. She can’t do it though, not yet. And the intensity of that fact makes her want to remove herself from the situation immediately. Clarke drops her guard and continues their walk, unwilling to focus on the moment for longer than necessary. “Is it always so empty? The palace, I mean.”

Lexa doesn’t respond immediately, still reeling from the rapid transition between topics, “No. My mother has had all non-essential activity here ceased ever since my father’s fallen ill.”

She doesn’t know what she expected, honestly. That the entire kingdom is on hold for the health of one royal is frustrating, though unsurprising. She is surprised, however, that it’d be ordered by the queen, whose reputation is steeped in an unforgiving state of constant progress towards this or that. Stopping that progress for the sake of anyone, even her own husband, doesn’t make sense for what she knows of the queen. “Seems odd for who your mother is.”

“Her methods are unconventional as a general rule. As long as she can, by whatever stretch of logic, say that her actions will put her closer to her goals, she feels they’re justified.”

“What’s her logic to this?”

“Our nation’s reputation would suffer should his current state be witnessed by the wrong person.”

“Is that why she was so… glare-y when I was in there with him?” She still shivers when she thinks back to the coolness of the queen’s grey eyes.

Lexa laughs, as she tends to whenever Clarke mentions how intimidating her mother is. “She’s always like that, but I suppose it comes out more when she’s feeling protective.” The look on Clarke’s face must show some absurd amount of confusion because when Lexa looks at her, she laughs again, louder this time. “What? You don’t associate protectiveness with the terrifying Queen Alyna?”

“Not often, no.” Clarke, glad that Lexa hasn’t taken offense to her talk against her mother, smiles at Lexa, who shakes her head before they fall silent for a while.

When Lexa speaks again, she’s much quieter. “She does love him, you know. Being queen, though, it complicates things. She shows it in the only way she knows how.”

“My mom always used to say that love is an action. If you can’t show it, does it even really matter that it’s there?”

That particular question inspires an impassioned debate on the nature of love, Lexa maintaining that inability to show it doesn’t change the tangible effects it has on the person feeling it, and Clarke arguing that the point of love is the subject of that love, so not showing it to them defeats the purpose.

They don’t come to any sort of conclusion by the end of the discussion, both unwilling to yield. Clarke doesn’t realize the irony in arguing so passionately about something neither had any sort of experience with until much later.

They talk like this often, in fact it’s what they do most. It’s hard for Clarke to get used to at first, unfamiliar with the process of really getting to know someone. Everyone she’s ever interacted with before she’s grown up with. She never had to learn someone to know them, she just knew them. It’s different with Lexa, as most things are.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Clarke suggested this whole thing in the first place as a way to right her world again. Because Lexa seems different, and she’s breaking the rules.

Lexa has whispers of that same sort of humanity Clarke’s only ever been able to see in other commoners. In giving without reason, interacting without reservation, apologizing without hesitation… it’s unexpected. And it’s making Lexa hard to sort into Clarke’s preconstructed boxes labeled “good” and “bad”. Because Lexa is still royalty, and she still benefits whenever Clarke’s people lose, and that should make her bad. But she doesn’t seem bad, even though she can’t be good.

And Clarke wishes Lexa were easier to sort, because it’s been months since they started spending time together and she isn’t any closer to finding the answers she sought when she first proposed their little arrangement.

After more time, more talking, more card games, a few good stories, and one ill-advised adventure through some of the more restricted areas of the palace, Clarke has to admit to herself that she doesn’t care to find those answers as much as she cares about Lexa.

**********

Clarke’s never been one to look up. She’s never seen the point in it. Looking around serves a purpose, shows you everything you actually have a chance of touching. But up? Towards the cosmos, or the heavens, or whatever it is that’s really up there? Clarke’s never bothered.

There’s no time for looking up, for torturing yourself with wonder over what can never really be known or experienced.

But as she lay in her cot one morning, gently running her fingers along the lines connecting the little dots printed on the pages of the starbook Lexa lent her, she feels a curiosity piquing that she’s never felt before. A subtle tug, a tender urging, asking her to turn her eyes upwards.

For the first time, Clarke begins to wonder what’s up there. If people can really make pictures and tell stories based on what they find, surely it shouldn’t be all that heartbreaking to never really _know_.

Perhaps seeing it is enough.

She decides to resist the urge, for now at least, unsure that she’d be able tear her eyes away ever again if what she finds among the stars is truly as beautiful as the diagrams in Lexa’s book.

Clarke doesn’t have time to regret the decision, hearing a loud banging on the shack’s door and a brief  “Clarke!” before Octavia’s barging through the entry.

She jumps up, slamming the book shut before trying to slyly hide it behind her back as Octavia comes to stand in front of her. The girl eyes her suspiciously, “… watcha doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh...”Octavia cocks her eyebrow, and gestures to Clarke. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh…” She rolls her eyes and reaches towards Clarke, who only resigns herself to handing the book over before Octavia can actually snatch it from her. Octavia runs her hands over the cover before flipping through a few pages and closing it again, giving Clarke a perplexed expression. “Did you steal it or something?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh…” She hands the book back over. “Why are you being so weird?”

“I’m not.”

“Uh‒”

“Octavia, if you say ‘uh-huh’ again I’m going to tackle you.” Octavia looks even more eager to say it again. Before she can, Clarke asks “did you need something?”

“Oh. Right. New arrival today. Bell’s getting together a welcoming party. You in?”

For the sake of compromise, Bellamy’s begun letting Octavia participate in basic Thieves’ Guild activity, though still keeping her away from anything remotely dangerous and making her promise to do nothing without an older member escorting her. She’s satisfied, for now, though Clarke knows it’s only a matter of time before she starts pushing the limits.

Clarke nods before moving to put her cloak and boots on, placing the starbook back under the loose panel in the floorboard before leaving.

“Any idea who it is?”

“No. Whoever it is seems big though. Monty says they have a whole crew setting up for them.”

She finds that somewhat hard to believe. People with access to aid like that aren’t the type to move into the Ark. There’s a reason the people of the district have taken to setting up welcoming parties for new arrivals; many come to them with absolutely nothing but the clothes on their backs and need help finding a place to stay temporarily before they can set up a more permanent residence.

Clarke follows Octavia through the district, surprised that they’re heading towards the boundary instead of the back edges new arrivals tend to prefer. They meet up with Bellamy, Murphy, and Miller along the way, all just as curious about this mystery person.

The first thing Clarke notices as the group approaches is that an entire campsite has been setup right along the line separating the inner district from the Ark. Tents, carts, a few pack animals, wooden posts scattered, and about twelve men milling around transferring brick from place to place. Getting closer, Clarke’s able to make out the sounds of orders being communicated among the men.

“Careful with that! It’s your ass if something ends up broken.” 

“Remember, don’t bother with the residence until the workspace is finished. The hearth and the overhang have priority.”

“Hey! Where should we leave this?”

It takes three men to carry what he’s referring to, the strain visible in their faces as they try desperately the grip onto the odd mass of metal.

“Bell, is that what I think it is?” Octavia asks, looking to her brother and pointing.

“This is good, right? We still haven’t found anyone to work with us since Sinclair left.” Clarke says, trying to seem more optimistic than she feels.

“Let’s just see what’s going on.” Clarke knows Bellamy’s distrust of strangers in general, and is all too aware that his feelings are magnified when it comes to strangers that appear to be part of the ‘Have’ section of the society.

They reach the end of the campsite, approaching a man as he digs through one of the packs on the ground.

Ever the charmer, Bellamy uses “what’s all this?” as a greeting, the group falling behind him.

The man looks up from his position on the ground briefly before standing and holding out his hand. “Are you Bellamy Blake?”

Bellamy looks down to the stranger’s hand and then back up to meet his eyes. “Who’s asking?”

He lets his hand fall with a chuckle. “I’ll take that as a yes. The blacksmith’s been expecting you. Wait here.” The man’s off before any of them can stop him, and Bellamy turns around to face the rest of the group again.

“We got a game plan for how we’re handling this?” Murphy asks quietly.

“Let me do the talking, we need to know if we can trust this guy.”

“No offense, but you’re not exactly the best with first impressions.”

He looks like he’s about to say something when Octavia hits him on his arm and points to a young woman with an odd contraption on her leg limping over to them.  

She smirks at the group as she approaches, “All of you to greet lil ol’ me? I’m flattered.”

“You’re the blacksmith?” Clarke almost cringes at the disbelief in Murphy’s voice.

She comes to a stop a few feet in front of them. “For the sake of our future arrangement, I’m gonna pretend I’m not offended by your surprise.” She’s young, probably around Bellamy’s age, definitely the youngest smith Clarke’s ever seen. She looks over each one of them individually. “I’m Raven. Sinclair said your district was in need of a blacksmith.”

“How do you know Sinclair?” Clarke asks, ignoring the glare Bellamy gives her for disregarding their game plan.

“I met him on the road a few months back. We traveled together for a while. He helped me, got me back on my feet. Literally.” She gestures to her leg. “I owe him a lot. And he said that if I wanted to return the favor, I’d come help your people. So, here I am.”

Bellamy’s clearly skeptical, “So you know what we do then?”

“I have to admit, when he said ‘Thieves’ Guild', I wasn’t expecting a bunch of teenagers. But who am I to judge, right?”

He looks around the campsite, “The guard’s gonna make you move.”

“Let me worry about that.” Clarke turns her hear towards her companions. Bellamy clearly annoyed at Raven’s apparent cockiness, Octavia visibly impressed by her lack of fear, and the rest unsure of what to think.

“You’re really willing to risk it all for people you don’t even know? Just because Sinclair told you to?” Raven’s eager, an unexpected quality for an outsider to possess.

“Look, I’m not the type to put my ass on the line for a cause I don’t believe in. Just be grateful I’m choosing yours.” Clarke’s instincts tell her that Raven’s confidence isn’t unfounded. She’d be an asset for sure, especially if her skills are anywhere near what she’s projecting. “Besides, unless something’s changed and you’ve actually found someone else to work with you, I feel a whole hell of a lot like your only option.”

She has a point.

Bellamy has to know that.

He averts his eyes and swallows before looking back to her. “All right then, Raven. Let’s work something out. Is there something you want in exchange?”

“Let’s go about this on a case by case basis for now. I’ll know more once I get set up here. Shouldn’t take too long, maybe another week or so.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No. I think my guys got this for now. I’ll find you if I need anything.”

Bellamy nods before looking to the rest of the group and gesturing with his head back towards headquarters. He leads, and the others follow. Clarke waits only a moment, saying a quick “thank you, Raven” under her breath before joining them.

Clarke doesn’t know what Raven’s involvement will change. But she thinks it might mean something that, of all the places she could have chosen to set up, her hearth is being constructed on the boundary between two districts.

**********

True to her word, it takes Raven a week and a half to get her smithy set up. The first thing she forges is a short dagger, in near perfect balance (though she asserts her lack of recent practice is what kept it from absolute perfection). She presents it to the Thieves’ Guild as “an official token of friendship”, but Clarke suspects it’s more about garnering trust in her abilities. Bellamy claims it as his almost immediately, the only sign of approval he expresses. It’s enough. Raven rolls her eyes and throws a “there’s more where that came from” over her shoulder before exiting headquarters.

And there is.

Raven’s talented, exhibiting just as much artistry in all she makes as she does practical application. Her wares are unlike anything the Ark, or the city, has seen before, and that gets her a lot of attention.

The Ark has never seen so much activity from outsiders, people traveling from all corners of the city to watch Raven work, and put in commissions. The only one unsurprised by this development is Raven herself, who says “I’m kind of a big deal” with a crooked smile when Clarke asks her about it one day.

She is, apparently. Clarke overhears some gentlemen talking about the Ark’s newest member on one of her trips to the palace. She starts tailing them, veering off course as her desire to learn more outweighed her urge to be on time, “she used to travel with her wares, taking occupancy of any forge she’d come across.”

“And they’d just let her?”

“Let her? They’d be honored. The girl has quite the reputation, most were hoping her working on their forges would bring them luck.”

“Odd that she finally settled here then.”

“Odd that she’s working again at all, really. I heard she hasn’t gone near a smithy in over a year, ever since her injury.”

The men enter the marketplace, and Clarke resigns herself to turning back towards the palace knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation over the noises of a bustling crowd.

**********

Despite Clarke’s detour, she still arrives at the stables earlier than Lexa. She doesn’t mind it, glad to have the opportunity to quell her nerves about riding and ruminate over what she’s learned about Raven before the other girl sees her.

She leans against the post next to Pauna’s stall, waiting and mulling over the fact that she’s learned more about Raven’s past in the last hour than she has in the weeks since she’s arrived. Wells’s entrance interrupts her thoughts, and she watches as he enters the stall directly across from her with only a nod in acknowledgment of her presence.

Wells sets a bucket full off water down next to the horse, and clicks his tongue at the animal in greeting. He dips a cloth in the water, and begins washing the animal. He’s focused on his task when he breaks the silence, “You two make an odd pair.”

She tries to push the uninvited and unwarranted blush from creeping up at the back of her neck. Unsure of what he’s trying to imply, she stammers out “I‒”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

She doesn’t.

If she did, though, she’d say something along the lines of “we’re not a pair.”

Or “we’re not that odd.”

Or “I know.”

She’d set him straight, that’s for sure.

For what feels like hours, the sounds of wet cloth slapping against the surface of water, the skin of the horse, and dripping are all that can be heard. Clarke watches him. He’s gentle with the horse, attentive, like only someone who’s been caring for something their entire life can be.

Clarke wonders what it’s like to know another life with such familiarity.

“There have been eleven queens in her line. My family’s served seven of them.” If he wasn’t speaking to her, it’d be impossible to tell he was aware of her presence at all, his attention completely on the task at hand otherwise. “I know you like who she is now. I do too, she’s the easiest noble I’ve ever had to work with.” Wells stops working for a moment, and looks at her. “But she won’t stay like this forever.”

“What makes you think that?”

He turns back to his work, and says like it’s the simplest fact in the world “Being important and being yourself don’t tend to go hand in hand.”

Clarke remembers everything Lexa’s ever said about being queen. About duty, and responsibility, and structure, and emotion, and her mother.

She knows she can’t argue with him.

And she hates it.

Clarke turns her gaze down to her boots, suddenly fascinated by the designs the caked on mud has created.

“Just be careful, Clarke. There’s gonna be a point when who she is starts mattering less than what she is. Don’t get caught up in that transition.”

She does her best to swallow down the lump in her throat, and ignores the crack in her voice as she says “I didn’t know you cared, Wells.”

“I don’t.” He stands to full height, and picks up the bucket.

“Ouch.” Clarke chuckles at the blunt statement.

Wells sets the bucket down and approaches her with a steady, even pace. She looks up to meet his eyes as he stands before her. “Look, every single person in that palace is trying to protect her from you right about now. I just figure someone oughta try to protect you from her too.”

He lets the words sink in for only a moment before he turns back around, grabs the bucket, and moves on to the next stall without another sound.

Clarke thinks of the dangers of touching stars and wants to be glad for their distance.

**********

She wants to run.

That’s one of the first things they learn when working with the Thieves’ Guild. If the situation gets too tense, if the circumstances get too messy, bail without hesitation. There’s no shame in taking a loss if it comes out of self-preservation, especially when running is the only way you can guarantee living to fight another day.

If Clarke can run, she can get out before it’s too late. If she can take the loss now, Clarke won’t have to see Lexa turn into something she’s not. If Clarke can accept the inevitable now, she won’t have to waste so much time on hoping.

Clarke wants to run.

And she turns to leave, fully prepared to make a break for the exit without looking back. In her haste, she fails to see the figure entering the stables, and she runs straight into Lexa.

“Clarke, we have to stop meeting like this.” _We really do_. Clarke hears the playfulness in Lexa’s voice and sees the slight flick of her eyebrow, and her eyes shine greener than usual. She’s in a good mood today, and it hits her like a single rushed ‘wait’ that changes everything.

Clarke hesitates, and her hesitation turns into waiting.

Waiting for Lexa to ready Pauna for her riding lesson. She thinks the princess might be going slower than usual for her sake.

Waiting for her heart to stop racing as Lexa helps her up onto the horse for the first time. She’s terrified and her palms are sweating and she wonders if their hands have ever touched without an embarrassing amount of moisture on Clarke’s end.

Waiting for Lexa to assure her that “we’re going to take it slow for Pauna’s sake, he’s never been ridden by someone other than me before. I know you’d be able to handle it, but bear with me” before remembering that she’s supposed to be confident. Clarke is almost certain Lexa can tell she’s nervous. She doesn’t know how to feel about the implication that Lexa’s pretending she doesn’t notice.

Waiting for Lexa to inevitably let go of the lead without telling her to prove that she can do it on her own, though she doesn’t want her to. She knows Lexa will let go. She knows she doesn’t want that. She knows she won’t say anything.

But Lexa doesn’t let go. Clarke watches her diligently, gaze darting back and forth between the grip Lexa has on the lead and Clarke’s own hands on the reins, making sure she’s holding them in the exact way Lexa showed her. They talk instead. Or, Lexa talks. Clarke mostly concentrates on not passing out, occasionally inserting random murmurs at what may or may not be appropriate times for response.

They stop moving eventually, and Clarke doesn’t notice until she hears her name in that way only Lexa manages.

“Clarke.” Lexa looks at her, and doesn’t speak again until Clarke manages to tear her eyes from the reins in her hands. “It’s okay. I’m not going to let go until you tell me you’re ready.”

She isn’t ready and she thinks she should speak but her throat is dry and she doesn’t know what she could say that wouldn’t seem like a thinly veiled attempt to prove she isn’t genuinely afraid. All she can do is nod. Lexa turns around and starts leading again.

The silence sits for only a moment before Lexa goes back to the casual conversation. Clarke hates that her vulnerability was so obvious but appreciates Lexa’s attempts at bringing no more focus to it than necessary.

They stay out there for a while, and Clarke doesn’t say she’s ready because she isn’t.

She isn’t ready to let go, and Lexa holds on.

Clarke hesitated, missing her chance to run.

And so she holds on too, waiting for Lexa to become something other than the girl doing her best to make Clarke feel comfortable.

Waiting for Lexa.

**********

It starts simply.

Harmless little days every once in a while spent feeling more like a girl than a princess. Subtle acts of rebellion like unadulterated laughter and carefree storytelling. Moments of respite that Lexa has come to really appreciate, so much so that she’s just shy of calling herself reliant.  

But that would make things complicated. It would push the envelope just a little too far. Make the guilt she feels for enjoying the time she spends with Clarke justified instead of a learned reaction she can ignore.

It’s nice, is all.

Clarke is nice. She never laughs when Lexa’s certain she’s said or done the wrong thing. Lexa can speak to her without worry that every word, pause, gesture, and intonation are being weighed, appraised, and evaluated. Conversation has never made her comfortable, but the experience of talking to Clarke is something akin to that.   

It’s through speaking with Clarke that she learns about her bravery, despite Clarke’s adamant denial of it. She’s fairly tight-lipped when it comes to details, understandably, but she has told her of the Thieves’ Guild’s basic functions. It’s fascinating to Lexa, the thought that the collective action of a few young people could help sustain an entire district. That sort of altruism is uncommon in most circles, especially the ones Lexa has experience with. But, as she knows now, some people are good for the pure sake of it.

Like Clarke.

And Lexa thinks she may be learning more about being good just by spending time with her.

She’s also intelligent in a way Lexa never would have expected, showcasing a straightforwardness that Lexa quite admires, especially after enduring firsthand the politicking and say-one-thing-mean-another attitude of everyone she met at the First Nation Ball. There’s a certain knowledge in the ability to be genuine. It proves one’s capability of knowing exactly what they think and of expressing it in an uncompromising and unapologetic manner. Lexa wishes she could see things so clearly.

Humane and honest. Two descriptors Lexa never would have assigned to a thief from the Ark district with only her preconceived notions and biases to guide her.

Crude and without any care for decorum though, that’s exactly what she expected. Though she never expected not to mind it.

It’s actually quite infuriating. On multiple occasions, and despite her insistence that Clarke not need to use titles when speaking with her, she does it anyways.

Only she uses the wrong ones. Intentionally.

Lexa can’t count the number of times they’ve had an exchange similar to:

“Why thank you, princess.”

“If you insist on calling me that you should know it’s very informal.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Majesty” she’d say, with that obnoxiously cocky crooked smile.

“That would be appropriate if you were addressing my parents, Clarke.”

"Ah! I see… my lady.” Clarke would break out into a full grin by that point, and Lexa would roll her eyes, pretending to be annoyed.

Lexa enjoys their time together. And she doesn’t want it to stop.

She manages to convince herself that it’s not reliance she’s feeling.

She’s right, sort of. But it’s still not something she should be allowing herself to feel.

**********

Lexa’s stressing over her hair, attempting to coax it into a braid and regretting her decision to dismiss Veira before she had time to help her with it when there’s a knock at her door. “Enter” she calls, not bothering to turn around.

 “Good morning, Your Highness.” She sees Anya come to a stop a few paces away from her in the reflection.

“Anya, I didn’t think we had anything scheduled for today.”

“We don’t.”

“Oh.” She expects her mentor to elaborate. When she’s met with only silence for a few moments, she asks “Is something the matter?”

Anya approaches her slowly, eyes cast downward. She leans against Lexa’s vanity before speaking. “Are you interested in a venture out today?”

Lexa perks up on reflex, if only for the sheer peculiarity of the suggestion. She’s not allowed off palace grounds often, her mother being somewhat paranoid about Lexa’s safety, certain that there are a multitude of people who’d love to see the heir to the throne dead.

“I’ll take your reaction as a yes. Good. I’m headed into the Ark district to see this new blacksmith everyone’s going on about. If she’s as talented as people say, I may try to hammer out a deal, get her to help supply some of our forces.”

Lexa shakes her head at Anya’s already moving figure. “Actually, Anya, I have a prior engagement that’ll prevent me from coming with you.” 

Anya raises her eyebrow and moves to her previous position on the vanity. “Does this ‘prior engagement’ have a name?”

Lexa concentrates even harder on braiding her hair. “Yes.”

She sees Anya’s sly grin out of the corner of her eye, “Is she pretty?”

“She’s my friend.”

“Do you spend so much time primping for all of your friends?” Anya tugs at one of the stray hairs at the top of Lexa’s head as she teases.

She swats at Anya’s hand, “I don’t think we’ve ever had single conversation in which I haven’t been tempted to have you thrown in the stocks at least once.”

The woman laughs, “it’s all a part of my charm.” They fall into a silence for just long enough for Lexa’s blush to fade. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” Anya pushes herself off of the vanity before turning to face her. “I’ll be away for a while.”

Lexa immediately stops with her hair and turns in her seat.

“A few weeks, maybe a month at most.”

“Is there something we need to be worried about?” With the palace’s activities halted, most news goes straight to Lexa’s mother, making Lexa fairly unaware of the nation’s current events unless she has direct contact with the queen. Even then, all information is privileged information, and she’s not privy to most of it. They could be at war and Lexa would be none the wiser.

“Nothing more than usual. Squabbles just along our borders with the neighbors and all that. It’s not a full-fledged campaign by any means.”

“If they’re normal skirmishes, why are _you_ being sent?” Anya’s rank puts her above most battles. She’s an advisor on military strategy; petty disputes with neighboring nations are, in general, a waste of her time. Anya is only supposed to be utilized when something important is happening. That she’s being sent now is concerning, to say the least.

“Her Majesty works in mysterious ways.” Anya may not agree with everything the queen stands for, but she’s much too loyal to question a direct order. Straightening her stance and putting on her official voice, “Anyways, I wanted to tell you before my departure that you should report to the barracks for training in my absence. Indra will be expecting you, so don’t use this as an excuse to spend extra time with your… ‘prior engagement’. I highly recommend you’re not out of practice when I get back.”

“I’ll keep up with it, Anya.”

“Good.” She turns on her heel and moves to exit.

“Be careful.”

Anya stops, looks at Lexa over her shoulder, gives a slight bow of her head, and exits the room.

Lexa gives up on her hair, deciding to forgo the braid, brushes it out and pushes it over her shoulder before rushing down the spiraled tower steps to meet Clarke.

**********

Lexa finds Clarke at the entrance to the cellar, their unofficial meeting place of late. She’s leaning against the wall, toying with a small coin absentmindedly. The dim lighting of the corridor casts shadows on Clarke’s face. Her eyes shine despite the darkness.

The sight reminds Lexa of something she might see immortalized in one of the palace’s many masterpieces. The pensive expression, head turned upwards as if searching for answers. The thumb tracing lightly over the edges of the coin, a reminder of its reality. The contrast in the darkness of the shadows and the lightness of who they’re covering capturing a silent conflict.

She’d call it _The Thief’s Burden_ , and she’d hang it in the most obscure alcove of the palace she could find so as to guarantee only those with knowledge of its existence would be able to witness it. Onlookers would have to seek it out, venturing off of the well-tread pathways, and exploring a section of existence they’d never before considered.

 When Clarke notices her presence, Lexa’s greeted with a smile that a masterpiece wouldn’t do justice.

Lexa tilts her head in the direction of the cellar’s door, “Shall we?”

They settle into casual conversation as they enter and take their usual places on either side of the First Nation tunnel’s opening. Clarke tells her about her frustrations with Octavia’s newest hobby: stealing the possessions of the Thieves’ Guild’s members. “She’s trying to prove a point, and I get it. But it’s obnoxious. And, of course, I have to pretend I don’t know what’s going on when people come to me asking if I know where their stuff is because Octavia would disown me if I ratted her out.”

“That sounds… messy.”

“That’s loyalty for you.” Lexa wouldn’t know. “Besides, I doubt it’s messier than all your ‘courtly intrigue’ business.”

“That is…” her protest fades almost before it begins, remembering almost the memoirs and official records Titus has her reading these days “A very fair point. Honestly you should see some of the historical accounts we have on past battles. Entire wars waged on the basis of petty feuds and loosely defined betrayals.”

“As exhilarating as that sounds, I think I’ll have to pass.”

Lexa watches as Clarke tries to the coin between her fingers. She keeps dropping it right before she can transfer it to the space before her little finger, her frustration with the task growing over time and the crease between her eyebrows becoming more pronounced as evidence of it.

“Why do they make you do that, anyway?” Her eyes don’t divert from her task.

“Hm?

“They have you spend so much time reading about things that happened ages ago instead of letting you focus on what’s happening right now, or at least teaching you what you can do in the future. Seems backwards to me, is all.”

She mulls over Clarke’s words for only a moment, they’re nothing she hasn’t considered herself before. “It’s my name.”

“Lexa?”

“No. My real name.”

Clarke stops toying with the coin and looks to her for explanation.

Lexa can’t meet her eyes, and turns her head towards the many barrels of wine stacked in front of her. Her nails dig into her palms, an effort to keep her grounded, and she has to swallow down a sudden lump in her throat before she can speak with a level, unaffected voice.

“Queen Alexandria I was the last queen of the First Nation, but her reign also marked a time of great prosperity all the way up to her assassination. My given name was chosen as a tribute to her and as a statement of hope that I’ll be the one to finally bring the lands to their former glory. I can’t rule as she did unless I’m familiar with how she ruled. I can’t expect to pave a better outcome, for myself or for the supposed reunited nation, unless I know where she went wrong.”

“Is that what you want?”

The question doesn’t make sense to Lexa, she eases up on her palms. “What?”

“Do you want to be the second Her?” Clarke’s words pull Lexa’s gaze straight towards her, where she looks on earnestly for an answer.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Clarke.”

“Well, I think it does.” She shrugs and goes back to fiddling with her coin casually, as if they’re not discussing Lexa’s entire reason for being. “And I think your real name is Lexa.”

It’s not funny, but Lexa laughs.

Her chosen name is nothing, really. It’s a protest that is never recognized as even remotely legitimate. It’s a symbol she herself created out of thin air. It’s a futile hope that she could ever be something other than the second Her. She prefers it, if only for simplicity’s sake, but ‘Lexa’ is still nothing, and there isn’t anything she could possibly assign to it that would change that.

But Clarke thinks it means something. She thinks that it somehow represents who she really is as opposed to her given name.

Lexa wishes she were right. She is who she is, and she will be who she will be. A name won’t change that.

A name can’t change that.

She’s lost in her thoughts and staring at her hands resting in her lap when she feels a hand on her shoulder. Clarke’s kneeling beside her, somehow having approached her without her noticing, and squeezing gently. Lexa’s gaze is transfixed where she feels Clarke’s support, both perplexed by the physical contact and appreciative of its existence. She stares as if it’ll disappear upon looking away. So she doesn’t, not until she hears a murmured “hey”, and even then she finds herself staring at Clarke’s soft features.

She should have told Anya “yes”, really. Lexa’s ‘prior engagement’ is indeed pretty.

Lexa sees the bob in Clarke’s throat as she swallows, shaking off the moment, before Clarke says “I want to play a game.”

She’s learned by now Clarke’s tendency to derail any situations with particular emotional intensity, and has largely accepted it. It’s probably for the better. But she does miss the contact immediately after Clarke removes her hand.

Lexa gives her a small smile, part in thanks and part in acknowledgement that the moment’s over, “You explicitly said the last time we had to stop ‘for the sake of our friendship’s future.’”

"It’s not my fault you’re a cheater. I stopped that for the greater good.”

The game in question Clarke had introduced in an effort to break up their usual routine, having learned it from some new arrival in her district. The person she learned it from must have spent some time in Delphi, as Lexa recognized it from her studies of foreign cultures almost immediately as she went over rules. She feigned ignorance though, up until Clarke asked her why she was so good at it after her fourth consecutive win, and she confessed to her previous experience.

“The greater ego, more like. And besides, if either of us is a cheat, it’s you.”

Clarke fakes offense at her comment, “That’s a gross stereotype and I won’t stand for it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I didn’t notice your attempts at sleight of hand.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Teach me that someday and perhaps I’ll forgive.”

“And enable your cheating ways further? I would never.”  

They exit the cellar during their banter, walking aimlessly through the palace’s halls as Clarke suggests a game of “Hide n Seek” and Lexa tries not to be embarrassed at never playing such an apparently common recreation.

“I grew up here and you really expect to find a place I won’t be able to find you?” She doesn’t want to be accused of cheating again for merely having an advantage.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

Lexa’s wary of agreeing, as she is with most plans Clarke comes up with, much more tentative than her companion. She needs more details before she can acquiesce to the idea. “Is any place out of bounds?”

“No.”

“Clarke, the palace is massive. It would take days to scour every corner.”

“What? Scared you won’t be able to find me?” Clarke’s expression is very similar to the one she wears whenever she’s winning. Lexa glares at her. “Oh, fine. We have to stay _inside_ the palace.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.”

 She has to stop herself from rolling her eyes, choosing to ignore the comment. “What’s to happen should a guard or a servant find you first?”

 “You know, it’s fine if you’re afraid you won’t win. Just admit it.”

She’s going to regret this, she knows that. But she can’t let Clarke’s smugness go unanswered. She says, with as much reluctance as she can possibly muster, “Fine. Let’s play.”

“Yes! C’mon, cover your eyes. Count to a hundred.”

Lexa does as Clarke asks, closing her eyes when they come to a stop at an end of the corridor, and trying to conceal the smile threatening to erupt at Clarke’s excitement. When she starts counting, she feels Clarke grab her hands and place them over her eyes.

She hears a whispered “no peeking” in her ear and quiet footsteps moving away from her.

Distracted by the tingling in her hands and the sudden heat in her cheeks, Lexa forgets to count.

**********

Her search for Clarke hasn’t gone on long before she decides that giving in was definitely a poor decision. Not only does she have no clue where Clarke would think to hide, but her counting misstep prevented her from determining the relative area she could have chosen within the time she had.

She thinks she knows where Clarke _wouldn’t_ go. Wrapping back around to the cellar would be too obvious. Anywhere near the servants’ quarters would be too risky. Rooms with large, open spaces are hardly an option. Lexa takes a gamble and assumes she wouldn’t try to find a room she’s never seen before, hoping Clarke’s sense would outweigh her competitive spirit.

That leaves the Grand Library.

Lexa sets out, making sure to check the drawing rooms and alcoves along the way just in case. Upon arrival, nothing looks out of place. Deciding to search the aisles first (if only to spare her any unnecessary crawling under desks) she walks as slowly and as quietly as possible, not wanting to alert her competitor to her presence by mistake.

She weaves in and out of the rows, searching every corner and around every edge. Lexa listens carefully as she moves, hoping to detect any sounds that could help her narrow down Clarke’s hiding place. She’s about to give up on the searching the aisles when she hears a slight brushing sound, like fabric rubbing against something. Lexa can’t quite pinpoint the noise, it happens too fast.

She approaches the last corner, hoping that her time spent in the library wasn’t completely pointless, peeks around it and  

Nothing.

Lexa turns around quickly in frustration, but jumps back almost immediately with a yelp, nearly knocking over a stack of books in the process, when she comes face to face with someone she didn’t expect.

“God, Titus! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He eyes her like she’s been caught doing something illegal. “Are you looking for something, Your Highness?”

Straightening her posture and clasping her hands in front of her, “I thought I heard something back here.”

“I see.” There’s no way he believes her. “I’m pleased I ran into you, Your Highness. I’ve been meaning to speak to you outside of our sessions.”

_Wonderful._ “Oh?”

“Yes. Specifically regarding the… company you’ve been keeping recently.”

_There it is._ “I see.”

“Such close interaction with an Arker is indecent for someone of your station, Your Highness, you must realize that.” The disdain is clear in his pronunciation of ‘Arker’. It may as well have been a slur. It probably is, in some circles. “If word got out of your newfound fascination with that girl it would tarnish your reputation, likely for good.”

Lexa’s suddenly glad that Clarke isn’t in the library. She shouldn’t have to hear this.

“My reputation with who, Titus? The palace is practically deserted these days.”

“With your subjects, Your Highness. I doubt that girl has the sense to be discreet about your time together.”

The entire conversation is leaving an awful taste in Lexa’s mouth, and it’s not for her own sake. “And you fear other’s knowledge of our friendship would, what exactly? Humanize me in their eyes?”

“No. I fear it will degrade you.”

She hopes he doesn’t notice her clench her fists.

“The social order exists for a reason, Your Highness. Deviants, outcasts, criminals, transients… they all threaten the way of life led by the majority of your people. We’ve been over all of this in your studies, don’t you recall?”

Lexa does recall. She doesn’t trust her voice to maintain a civilized tone. His question is answered by her silence.

“Queen Alexandria I had her faults, Your Highness, but casting out people like that girl for the sake of unity was not one of them.”

Lexa inhales, and counts to three. Titus looks like he’s going to begin another entreaty when she mumbles out, “Clarke.”

“Pardon?”

With her head held high, she tells him “Her name is Clarke, Titus, not ‘that girl’. And she’s my friend.”

Titus’s mouth is agape, and she may as well have struck him based on the look on his face. When he regains his composure, he takes a step closer to her. “Tell me, Your Highness. Would Her Majesty approve of your ties to _Clarke_?”

She almost wishes she hadn’t told him her name. The way he says it makes her blood boil and her skin crawl.

But he’s grasping at straws, she realizes. It’s a threat, and a bad one at that. “You and I both know the queen takes no interest in my daily activities, Titus, including the people I interact with. So long as I do all I do with reason, Her Majesty pays it no mind.”

“And your reason here?”

“My reason is not your concern. If my mother wishes to take this up with me, so be it, but it is not your place to question my motives.”       

Pulling rank isn’t something she particularly enjoys, but she’s been done with this conversation since before it began, and the personal attacks he’s made at Clarke haven’t endeared him in Lexa’s eyes. She’s angry, and she has a title.

“I see.” The betrayal in his eyes is apparent. “I apologize, Your Highness, for stepping out of line. I only seek what’s best for you.”

Lexa only nods in acknowledgement.

Titus bows before he departs, nearly storming out.

Lexa doesn’t let out the breath she’s been holding or drop her posture until she hears a slamming of the doors. She’s still tense, and she needs to find Clarke before someone else does, so she picks up her previous pace and moves to rush out of the library, with no idea where to search for her next.

As she moves through the stacks, she’s surprised by a hand grabbing her shoulder from behind. She acts without thought, pulling at the assailant’s arm with her left hand as far as it’ll go, wrapping her right hand around their neck, and flipping them over her shoulder. Lexa pins their arms to the ground and presses her knee to their chest, immobilizing her attacker.

Until her mind registers who it is.

“Clarke!” She launches herself off of the girl. “I am so sorry, you surprised me, and I’m a bit on edge.” Lexa rushes to help her up. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry. It was reflex, I didn’t mean to‒”

“I’m fine, Lexa.” Clarke rubs at her shoulder. “I didn’t know you could do that. Wow.”

Clarke almost sounds impressed, and Lexa forgets real sentences. “I‒ Combat training. Customary.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I try to scare you.” Clarke starts walking towards the doors, and Lexa follows in silence. “Remind me never to doubt your descriptions of that man again. He’s exactly how you said he was.” She sounds bitter. Lexa can’t blame her.

Lexa stops moving, and doesn’t speak until Clarke does too. “You heard all that then?”

Clarke nods and looks anywhere but at her.

Lexa’s never been more ashamed by where she comes from. “I’m sorry. Titus is very traditional. He doesn’t see what’s wrong in‒”

“In saying an entire group of people should be cast out because of where they were born? I see that.”

She feels something on the brink of slipping through her fingers. Something important has been knocked loose and it’s falling, falling, and she knows she won’t be able to put it back together if it breaks.

Lexa tries to catch it, and misses. “Clarke, I’m‒”

“Is that what you listen to and read all day? About how my people aren’t even worth acknowledging?

It’s falling. It’s falling, and Lexa’s desperate to save something she can’t even name.

“Clarke.”

“If spending time with me is gonna make you… worse, or something, or get you in trouble, then it’s probably not worth it.”

There’s that tightness in her chest that comes whenever a piece of her wants to cry, and Lexa’s glad she only knows tears in the abstract. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? Everybody else is.”

It’s falling.

It’s falling.

And she needs to catch it, so she does the one thing she’s very bad at. Lexa tells the truth.

“It’s worth it to me.” Lexa hopes that Clarke still thinks what she wants matters.

Clarke finally meets her eyes, and Lexa doesn’t know if she’d prefer her desperation transparent or secret.

She knows her preference won’t change what Clarke sees.

Lexa’s not good at telling the truth, and Clarke’s not good at handling intensity like the honesty of a liar. Lexa fears Clarke will derail the situation before she can find out whether or not she was able to catch what had been falling.

A barely perceptible “okay” is her only indication that she succeeded, but it’s enough.

Clarke’s moving towards the exit again, and Lexa follows, slipping back into their usual banter with ease.

“So… since _I’m_ the one that technically found _you_ , I think I won.”

“Fine, but only because I feel bad about putting you on your back so easily.”

“Oh please, that was all luck, princess.”

She’s caught it, without being able to name it, and she clutches tightly within the deepest parts of herself to prevent it from slipping again.

**********

In hindsight, “Hide n Seek” probably wasn’t one of her brightest ideas. It started out as a way to get Lexa distracted from being sad while also allowing Clarke to distance herself from confronting those feelings head on. However, the more reasons Lexa came up with regarding why it was a bad idea, the greater the plan sounded and the more adamant she was in pushing it.

It isn’t until she’s stuck in her hiding place on top of one of the bookshelves and having to listen to that bastard Titus go on and on about how unworthy her and her people are that she decides she hates this game.

She knew nobles didn’t like Arkers. But she’s never had to hear the sheer contempt in their voices as they spoke of them before. She knew they were viewed as less-than. But she’s never had to hear their reasoning for it. She knew what royals thought of them in the abstract. But she’s never had to hear what’s said about them when they’re alone.

She’s never wanted to run more than in this moment. Clarke is close to climbing down and getting the hell away from there as fast as she can, heading straight to Wells to say “you were right, and I am an idiot” because he was right, she is an idiot, and she should have listened to him when she had the chance. She’s just a single thought away from lowering herself down when she hears her name and freezes, afraid she’s been caught.

A voice, that voice, makes her hesitate.

“Her name is Clarke, Titus, not ‘that girl’. And she’s my friend.”

Something about Lexa’s tone makes Clarke wants to disappear. She’s defending her. But she’s doing it like royalty, reminding Titus of his insubordinate status.

And Clarke doesn’t know how to feel.  

She hasn’t decided on anything by the time she hears a door slam, or by the time she’s climbing down from the bookshelf, or by the time she’s grabbing Lexa’s shoulder, or by the time she’s finding herself on her back looking up at Lexa, whose eyes have taken on more grey than she’s seen before, or by the time she’s confronting Lexa about what she heard.

Clarke hasn’t decided on anything. Because Lexa defended her, but she did it how a royal would. She hasn’t decided how she feels. Because Lexa seems to think differently than most royals, but she doesn’t act different than them all of the time.

Wells was right, though, at least about people trying to protect Lexa from her, and that’s something she can’t even pretend to understand.

She can’t wrap her head around the prospect that her people and those like them are a threat to any sort of unity, or a threat to anything, really.

On her walk back to the Ark, Clarke thinks of home and the children that run around barefoot but happy and the neighbors that have nothing but give everything.

No. Those people, her people, aren’t a threat to anything. They can’t be. No matter what _that man_ says.

Lexa knows that, but Clarke doesn’t know how long she’ll know that.

Part of her wants to give up on the hope that Lexa will turn out to be different. Someone can only hear so much of the same lie before they start believing it’s the truth, and Lexa’s already lived with people of such beliefs for her entire life.

And the other part‒ a part she realizes is growing with every visit, every joke, and every smile‒ wants to stick around just to make sure Lexa stays like this. If Clarke can be the counterexample, a constant reminder that _those people_ have names and lives and stories, maybe Lexa will keep knowing.

And maybe things will get better for her people, with the future queen seeing their side.

Clarke’s in the middle of the argument she’s having with herself as she crosses the border. A commotion from a few paces away pulls her out of her thoughts. In such tight spaces, voices travel easy, especially loud ones. She follows the sounds, slightly concerned but mostly just nosy, and finds herself outside of the residence Raven’s crew set up for her.

Clarke crouches next to the door and listens in. “I get a lot of visitors here, Blake, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“You know damn well who I’m talking about.” Bellamy is seething; Clarke can hear it in his voice. She hasn’t heard him this angry since her mother received the letter from Azgeda that sealed her father’s fate. “What was one of the crown’s number one lackeys doing here?”

“Ah. That ‘she’.” The two are silent for a while and Clarke can envision the glares. “Anya was here for the same reason as everyone else. To see my work and negotiate a potential commission.”

“Anya‒ are you kidding me? You’re working for them now?”

“First of all, I don’t work _for_ anyone. Second of all, I’m willing to work with anyone who can pay me. Other than your people of course and, by the way, you’re welcome for that. Third of all, nowhere in our little arrangement did I say you could dictate who I do and do not work with, so unless you’ve suddenly decided that you don’t actually need a blacksmith on your side, I suggest you watch the way you speak to me.”

_Damn._

 “If you’re with them, you’re not on our side.”

Clarke feels like the wind has been knocked out of her chest.

_Is Lexa ‘them’?_

_Am I betraying my people?_

She asked Lexa if spending time with her was worth it, but she’d never once thought to ask herself the same question.

“Look, I know you and your people don’t have the best relationship with the nobility, and I get that. I do. But I can’t help you if you don’t let me do it on my own terms.”

“What are your terms then, hm? Playing both teams and hoping not to get caught in the crossfire?”

“Not getting caught in the crossfire would be nice.” She hears Bellamy let out an exasperated sigh. “But I think this conversation is proof that I’m already too involved for it to be possible.”

“Whatever you say, Raven.”

“This deal with Anya is gonna give me leverage. Leverage I can use to make sure I’ll be able to see this through. If they need me, they can’t get rid of me for working with you.”

“So that’s your plan? You can’t be so thick-headed to believe nobody’s going to question you on this.”

“You let me and my thick-headedness worry about that. Besides, I already have you coming around, don’t I?”

Clarke hears movement coming closer to the door, and ducks around the corner. She has to press her ear against the wall to hear. “Blake.”

“What?”

“Things aren’t so black and white all the time. ‘Them’, ‘us’, ‘our side’, ‘their side’… none of it matters if you’re doing what feels right.”

She hears Bellamy leave without another word, and follows shortly after.

_None of it matters if you’re doing what feels right_.

Clarke never was one to give up.

**********

Her dedication is tested on her next trip to the palace. It’s one of the few she takes with her mother, the frequency of her sessions with King Roark having decreased as his health has improved.

“He can speak almost normally again” her mother says as they approach the bridge on royal grounds, “but he’s not healing as fast as I would have hoped, his fatigue hasn’t gotten much better and his fever flares up every few weeks. From what Her Majesty tells me, he has a long history of sickness like this. It’s doubtful he’ll ever return to full health.”

Lexa doesn’t talk about her father. They have that in common. But she knows what watching a father slip away is like, and Clarke doesn’t wish that on Lexa. Her mother isn’t wrong often, but she hopes she is in this case.

They reach the doors as normal, Abby moving to enter first and Clarke following close behind.

“Halt!” the guard on the left side of the doors holds his hand out in a ‘stop’ position as Clarke tries to follow her mother.

Abby whips around, “Excuse me?”

The guard’s doesn’t turn to face her, his posture remaining stick straight and turned dead ahead. “Your access to the palace has been rescinded.”

“I’m His Majesty’s doctor, he needs my aid, you can’t rescind my access.”

“Not yours. Just hers.”

Clarke’s never seen that particular mixture of “what the hell did you do” and “close your eyes while I murder somebody for you” in her mother’s face before.

“On whose orders?”

“The royal advisor’s.”

_Titus._

Abby takes a step closer to the guard. “I’m not going in there without my daughter.”

 “Mom, it’s okay.” Clarke doesn’t need her mother getting in trouble with the guard for her sake, no matter how hard breathing feels or how fast her heart is beating or how terrified she is that she finally decided what to do too late.

“Clarke.”

“The king needs you, not me. I’ll see you back at home, okay?”

Abby eyes the guards for a long moment before nodding. “Fine. Be safe.”

It takes everything Clarke has to walk away. If she can’t see Lexa again she hopes _that man_ at least had the decency to tell her why Clarke wouldn’t be coming. Decency isn’t something she’d associate with Titus however, and she dreads the thought that Lexa may be waiting for her. Knowing her, she’d blame herself first for Clarke not coming.

She wishes she would have been able to say goodbye, and tell her one last time that her name is definitely Lexa, no matter what other people want it to be. Clarke thinks that’d help her, or she hopes it would, at least.

Clarke wonders what’ll happen to her. If Titus will use Clarke not showing up as proof that Arkers are to be avoided. If Lexa will start looking more and more like her mother. If she’ll go back to being lonely like she was before they became close.

She was just starting to accept that being stopped by Lexa’s voice was indeed becoming a habit, and that she didn’t mind it at all.

Clarke looks back then, at the palace and the royal grounds. At the sections of the grand structure she hadn’t yet been able to explore, and at the tower fit for a princess.

And that’s the exact moment Clarke gets what’s probably the worst idea she’s had yet.

**********

She waits at the cellar door for hours, every moment that ticks by another opportunity to agonize over what could have happened. Lexa thought they were fine. Things seemed normal‒ good, even, the last they spoke. She pours over the last interaction in her head, analyzing and reanalyzing and overanalyzing everything that happened until she manages to convince herself that she is definitely an idiot, Clarke despises her and always has, and that she should never speak again.

The longer she waits, the more embarrassed she becomes at still being there. She’s behaving like a fool.

If Clarke hasn’t shown up because she did something wrong, it’s foolish to be so torn up about it.

If Clarke hasn’t shown up simply because she was unavailable or something’s kept her away, it’s foolish to spend so much time berating oneself over imagined faults.

It’s foolish to be upset and it’s even more foolish to be so upset that she’s upset.

Most of the time, all Lexa has is her own mind. It’s her company and her counsel. That it’s so insistent on torturing her on occasions like these makes her wish that wasn’t the case.

She needs to turn it off for a while, act instead of think. She isn’t due at the barracks for training again until tomorrow, but she hopes they’ll make an exception in this case.

Lexa doesn’t bother returning to her tower to fetch her gear, certain the Guard Captain will have something she can borrow, instead navigating towards one of the palace’s back exits closest to the barracks.

When the guard lets her through, she finds Titus conferring with the guards on the other side.

And Lexa knows immediately why Clarke didn’t show.

“Titus. What did you do?”

He straightens his posture, and folds his arms behind his back, “My duty, Your Highness,” and he enters the palace without another word.

Something important, something complicated, something she still can’t quite name, was slipping and she caught it before it fell and broke. She clutched it tightly, hoping that burying it within the deepest depths of herself would keep it safe. She wasn’t expecting it to be ripped from her chest before she even knew what to call it.

Lexa continues on to the barracks, attempting to make peace with her mind along the way, figuring it’s the only presence still certain in her life.

**********

Clarke waits until sunset to begin her certifiably terrible plan. She’s reckless, not stupid, and the timing perfectly coincides with her mother’s nightly departure for the Ark’s makeshift clinic, where she’ll likely be until the wee hours of the morning.

She makes for the palace, traversing the marketplaces as they empty for the day and the merchants close up shop. The city doesn’t get quieter, the rough and rowdy crowd making up in zeal what they lack in numbers as they venture towards the bars in the neighborhood.

She only diverts from her normal route when she crosses the bridge and reaches the edge of the tree line that wraps around the entirety of royal grounds. She keeps to the edges, making sure her relative position to the tower is always clear, until Lexa’s balcony and the garden below come into view.

The garden, “deserted at all times unless father has people to entertain” is barren and dead, save for the vines growing up along the tower wall. Clearly maintenance of the plant life isn’t considered part of the palace’s “essential activity”. It’s a shame really, Clarke thinks it’d look quite beautiful lush and full grown; Lexa’s view would be nicer, at least.

It’s barely light out by the time she’s reached the base of the tower. Getting closer, she notices that the vines aren’t growing directly on the tower, but up a lattice attached to it. She pulls on it, hard, and the webbed structure doesn’t budge.

Clarke smirks, knowing this will be easier than she expected. They really shouldn’t have put the pretty version of a ladder so close to the balcony if they didn’t want people to get up there this way. 

She starts her climb, the first few steps experimental and tentative. Once certain that the lattice could support her weight, Clarke picks up the pace, the only real challenge being the lack of light.

Her climb brings her higher than she’s ever been before, and that should scare her. But she’s never been so close to the stars, and the stories didn’t lie when they called them beautiful. Looking up feels familiar. Being close feels warm. She realizes that she should never have been afraid of looking towards what was untouchable because of the heartbreak it might bring.

The real danger in beautiful impossibilities comes after you see them. When you aren’t sure whether or not you’ll be able to look away. When you aren’t sure that you’d even want to.

The lack of light makes getting from the lattice to the balcony difficult. The distance is hard to judge when she can’t see it. She shuffles as close as possible, and reaches out with her right hand, grabbing the railing as soon as she can. Clarke launches herself the short distance, successfully landing on the outside ledge of the balcony before crawling over to the other side.

Her foot gets caught on the railing, and she trips with an “oof”, just barely catching herself before she lands on her face. Clarke straightens up and shakes out her arms, only slightly tense from the climb.

Clarke approaches the set of doors anxiously. This was… further than she expected to get, admittedly. She wanted a chance to say goodbye, is all. She didn’t actually want to do it. Left hand poised to knock, she pulls it back repeatedly, committing to banging on the door only after taking a few deep breaths.

She steps back from the door after knocking, toying with the edges of her sleeves and waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

And she should have expected this, really. It wasn’t a solid plan on any account; Lexa not being there to open the door should absolutely have crossed her mind as being within the realm of possibility.

Clarke steps forward to try again, not particularly keen on climbing back down already. Fist raised, she moves to knock, missing when the door swings open.

Lexa stands, brow furrowed, wielding a dagger in the hand not holding the door. Her guard drops immediately when she sees her, eyes widening. “Clarke?”

“Hi.”

Lexa sheaths her dagger and looks past Clarke at the otherwise empty balcony. “Did you just climb up here?”

“That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” Lexa shrugs, and Clarke looks down at her hands trying to build up what she came here to say “I’m sorry, Titus‒”

“I know.”

“Oh.”

The plan was terrible _and_ pointless, then.

“You climbed my tower just to tell me that?”

“I… yes.” In the most simple of terms, she supposes.

Lexa smiles. A real one, one that shows her teeth. She’s noticed that those are rare for Lexa. Clarke doesn’t know why, but it’s enough reason for her to smile back, just as big. Maybe the plan wasn’t so bad, or so pointless.

“Would you like to come in?” she asks, stepping away from the entry.

Clarke shouldn’t go in, but she does. Goodbye might feel more right in the light of the fire she sees burning within Lexa’s bedroom.

They talk of their day, and what’s happened since they’ve last been together, falling into the easy rhythm they’ve discovered over the time they’ve known one another. When Lexa asks Clarke how the climb was, she’s honest, telling her the difficultly of seeing in the dark. She leaves out the part about tripping, deeming it unnecessary. When Clarke gives her honest opinion of _that man_ , Lexa laughs but doesn’t defend him. When Clarke teases her about always being so poised to attack, Lexa fires back with “maybe if you were more like me you wouldn’t have ended up on your back in the library”.

Many things feel right, but goodbye doesn’t.

Clarke is forced to consider that it’s no longer as simple as it began when she leaves that night without doing what she had intended. The consideration turns serious when she finds herself climbing again and again. She accepts that it’s complicated when, without fail, there’s always a lantern burning to light her way upwards and a door left ajar to remind her that, at least here, she’s welcome.

There’s a danger in viewing the stars, as distant as they are. There’s a danger in beautiful impossibilities.

Clarke can’t tear herself away from either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @justicarlexa :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even gonna try to explain the delay on this one, but it was absurd and I am very sorry. Things should be better now, maybe, no promises. But this fic has not and will not be abandoned. Huge shoutout to my friend @desilexa for editing this chapter for me, and lots of love towards all of you for waiting for so long on this one.
> 
> "Kettering" by the Antlers is a good song for this chapter. Please let me know what you think, I love validation. Find me @justicarlexa on tumblr if you have any comments or questions. xoxox

Clarke’s task is simple: find someone important, and take something that person thinks they need. “Do that,” Bellamy says one evening to Clarke and a few other apprentices, “and you’ll be a full member.”

Bellamy’s announcement came earlier than she expected, admittedly. She’d been planning on at least another year of basic service, fulfilling the same remedial tasks she always has until it was inevitably time for her initiation. Clarke suspects the rushed timeline is largely due to the strain that’s recently been placed on the guild. With an influx of arrivals in the district, the people have more needs than ever, meaning the guild’s full members are faced with riskier ventures out at an increased frequency.

_More runs, more risk._

To add to the busier schedules, more traffic in the Ark from outsiders has put everyone on edge. The stakes seem higher than ever, so Clarke doesn’t protest to the unforeseen change.  

If anything, it’s exactly what she would have preferred: a chance to prove herself ready to help in a more active capacity. All she has to do is pass the test.

Picking a mark comes with ease. Clarke’s regular ventures through the busiest, nicest, and wealthiest portions of the inner district give her time to familiarize herself with the usual suspects: businessmen, low level nobles, high end craftsmen, and the like.

This one’s a pawnbroker, one of the few willing to work with those of the lower class, though it’s not out of any sort of charity. He buys low, gaining ownership of people’s most prized possessions and family heirlooms for next to nothing, only to demand payment plus interest before most have time to collect their next income. He then sells the items to the highest bidder, his auctions taking place daily in the marketplace, showcasing no regard for the original owner’s inability to compete with the money of his buyers.

The desperate are always the easiest to exploit, and her target is a master of that game.

Clarke wants to knock him down a few pegs.

Shadowing him isn’t particularly difficult. The man sticks to a tight schedule, starting and ending every day in his office, with a few hours midday dedicated to his auctions. She’s able to clock his routine to near-perfection within two weeks of tracking his movements, thanks in part to his notoriety among the common people.

In addition, the back alley behind his office lets her case the place without much trouble. She sees exactly what she wants to take from the window, a scale that seems a center point in the room as it rests on the pawnbroker’s desk. His tendency to leave the window open until he leaves for the marketplace in the afternoon provides her with an opportunity for an easy entry without any potential time-consuming locks to pick, assuming her plan works exactly as she expects it to.

All-in-all, Clarke feels confident in her ability to pull off a task so simple.

That, in hindsight, should have been the first indication that something would go wrong.

She sets her plan into motion nearly an hour before the pawnbroker’s due in the marketplace. The waiting game is her least favorite part, but overhearing a near endless stream of “bargains” from inside, some even from voices she recognizes, provides her with renewed motivation to achieve her goal.

As she waits she toys with a small metal piece that, if she’s lucky, will be thick enough to keep the window from latching properly as the pawnbroker moves to close it, yet thin enough to ensure it’s not noticeably ajar. If it works, she’ll be able to slide the window open, and slip in and out without incident.

Clarke imagines the look on the broker’s face as he comes back to his find his scale‒ a tool he uses daily to reduce people and their entire livelihoods down to a system of numbers and balances‒ gone without a trace. The picture is too satisfying to let slip away.

_It has to work_.                                                                              

When she hears the voices cease, a door open and close, and then footsteps moving farther away from the window, Clarke slips the metal strip into place, and ducks behind the corner of the building. She watches him approach the window, and close it as usual. Trying not to dwell on whether or not she heard the “click” of the lock engage, Clarke moves as inconspicuously as possible around towards the front of the office building, and begins following the man towards the marketplace.

She doesn’t return to the alley until she confirms he’s started his auction, and will be busy for at least another two hours. The walk back is nerve-wracking, her skin feeling as if it’s been lit on fire and her breath sounds resembling something akin to the noises Pauna makes trying to blow hair out of his eyes. Clarke moves either too slow or too fast, reassuring herself that everyone isn’t actually staring at her.

Her calm returns under the cover of the alleyway, the lack of foot traffic making her less anxious about being caught. Clarke presses her hands gently against the shutters of the window. She takes a deep breath, moves her fingers towards the gap at the center, and tugs.

Clarke can’t help the smile emerge when it gives way. She opens the window, taking a moment to revel in her victory before hoisting herself up onto the ledge. She has one leg in the office and her eyes on the scale when she hears a yell and the clattering of chains.

“C’mon, do these have to be so tight?”

Clarke freezes instantly, and goes through multiple stages of shock before she’s able to form a conscious thought.

First, she’s shocked at the unexpected noise relatively close by.

Then, at the indication that there’s a guard nearby while she’s doing something _definitely_ illegal.

Finally, at the realization that she recognized the voice of the guard’s captive.

_Jasper_.

Clarke doesn’t hesitate. She’s climbs down from the window, removes the small metal piece, and latches the shutters before she even has a chance to mourn the lost score.

There’s barely time enough for her to form a plan as she’s rushing out of the alley way, fumbling with the seam in her cloak sleeve along the way, trying to dig out the tiny wire she keeps there for emergencies.

She spots Jasper in handcuffs being escorted through the streets of the district, and registers only the terror in his eyes before darting across full speed through the side streets, looping around to cut them off as quickly as possible.

Clarke overtakes them in no time. Giving herself only a moment to catch her breath, wire clasped tightly in her fist, she positions herself directly in Jasper’s path. She slows to a rushed walk. She doesn’t stop when he’s right in front of her, his hands cuffed and his arm grasped forcefully by the guard.

She averts her eyes and shoulder checks him, hard. Jasper’s knocked down. Clarke follows, landing directly on top of him. Jasper groans, the metal around his wrists pressed heavily into his torso under Clarke’s weight. It’s painful for the both of them, but the solid form of the cuffs makes it easy to find his hands.

Clarke scrambles to place the wire in his hands, just barely managing to wrap his palms around it and meet his eyes before she’s yanked back by her hood.

The collar chokes her as she’s tossed aside. Her hip hits the ground, and she cries out in pain, barely registering the guard spitting out “Watch where you’re going, urchin.”

She looks up at the guard, then past him to Jasper. He’s watching her with a mixture of concern, gratitude, and desperation. Jasper works hurriedly at the cuffs and Clarke prays he has the sense to wait until she’s off the ground to make a break for it. Otherwise, there’s a very good chance she’ll be the one going to jail today.

The guard remains focused on her as she moves to get up. She half expects him to turn back around and catch Jasper before he’s out of the cuffs, and is distracted trying to think of some sort of backup plan when a sharp pain bursts out across her ribs.

Clarke falls, holding where it hurts like the touch is the only thing keeping her body from splitting apart. Her vision blurs as her eyes well up with tears. She’s only just able to make out the guard coming in inches away from her face and growling “Don’t let me see you again.”

Blinking away some of her tears, Clarke watches the guard turn around. She can’t make out whether or not Jasper remains, can barely hear over the sound of the people going about their daily business around them, and the blood thumping in her ears.

With all the strength left in her she gets back up and runs.

Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t be too concerned about whether or not the guard was following her. Clarke’s fast, and knows the side streets of both the inner district and the Ark like they’re a lullaby she’s rehearsed her entire life. With her vision still blurry, half her mind occupied on whether or not Jasper got away too, and the imprint of a boot still throbbing on her ribs, however, Clarke doesn’t even dare look back.

**********

She doesn’t slow down until she’s barreling through the outer doors of Headquarters, only just stopping herself before she runs into Miller as he hops off the cot next to the door. Clarke doubles over, breath ragged. She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He’s silent but visibly concerned, the creases in his forehead prevalent.

Breathing stings, but Clarke inhales deeply during the spaces between her words, “Has Jasper been by?” 

Miller looks her up and down before answering. “You just missed him, he was looking for Bellamy.”

Clarke finally calms down enough to exhale. She stands to full height before speaking. “Bell’s not here?”

“He fought with Gina. I think he’s off brooding somewhere.”

Muttering out a “thanks”, she turns to leave.

As she ventures out, she presses a hand experimentally against her ribs, pushing until it throbs. She winces, but Clarke doesn’t think there’s cause for major concern. Nothing _feels_ broken, and that’s reason enough for her to skip out on informing her mom of the injury.

After a short walk through his main stomping grounds, she finds Bellamy at home, right next door to her own dwelling. She’s suddenly thankful her mother’s likely still caught up at the clinic. Had her mom been home, she would inevitably overhear the conversation she’s about to have with Bellamy, the walls too thin to prevent it. It’s best Abby doesn’t know the exact details of her daughter’s escapades, especially after the events of today.

Bellamy’s sitting across his bedroll on the ground when she enters, bottle in hand. He stares at the ends of his outstretched legs, either deep in thought or entirely devoid of it. He doesn’t look as she approaches and sits next to him.

The sun is setting by the time either breaks the silence. “What was the fight about?”

He chuckles slightly at her lack of any lead-in and takes a sip from the bottle before answering. “She thinks I put too much of myself into the guild.”

Gina’s not wrong. They both know that. Bellamy’s whole life is about the Thieves’ Guild, as it has been for years. Clarke was just a kid when she learned how a fourteen year-old Bellamy was providing for his family through thievery. She was there when he started stealing more and more to help the other struggling families in the neighborhood. She saw the habit start to spread across the district, and watched as Bellamy took all those new to it under his wing. She remembers her dad helping Bellamy turn it into a more organized force. And she witnessed firsthand as he threw himself into it entirely after his mother died, and as he was tasked with caring for Octavia on his own.  

Part of her is glad he’s found someone to tell him when he’s overextending himself, and the other part is fully aware that it’s not going to stop him from doing it just the same.

“Are you really angry with her for caring?”

He tenses up, voice just slightly elevated and harsher than before. “It’s not about that.” She clearly struck a nerve. He takes a moment to compose himself before starting again. “I’m trying to do the best for my people, if she can’t see that-”

“Isn’t that what she’s doing too, Bell? Trying to keep her one of people safe?”

The bottle nearly slips out of his hand as he chokes on the sentence he was trying to get out when she interrupted him. Clarke’s never seen that exact combination of blushing mixed with irritation before.  She has to hold in her laugh as she watches him struggle to regain his previous cool.

“I ever tell you you’re the pain in the ass I never wanted?” Bellamy lifts the bottle to his lips for another sip.

“What about Octavia?”

He chokes mid-swallow, a bit of the liquid spills out of his mouth and dribbles down his shirt, and Clarke starts laughing despite the pain in her ribs as she does so. “I’m telling her you said that.”

Their laughter fades and the sun continues to fall. Bellamy stands and moves towards each end of the small room, lighting the lanterns along the way, a reminder that she should likely get going soon if she wants to make it to the tower before it’s too cold to climb. He takes another sip of his drink, and resumes his seat next to her.

“You did well today.”

Her gaze drops to her hands as they rest in her lap. “I didn’t get anything.”

“There will be other chances. Besides, you saved Jasper. Putting others above our own safety is kind of what we do, it’s the whole point. I’d say that warrants a place in the guild.”

Her head snaps up and she looks at him, face full with that rare crooked smile of his. “Really?” Bellamy gives her a slight nod, and her grin is wide.

 She stands to leave, feeling lighter than she was when she arrived without the weight of her failure looming over her and ready to share the news of her accomplishment with Lexa.

The sound of her name stops her just before she leaves. “Clarke. You have an anniversary coming up.”

It’s not really an observation, though it’s delivered like one. And it can’t be a reminder, because it’s something Clarke’s unable to forget. It’s not a question, not technically.

It says a lot nonetheless.

It’s a rhetorical _“are you gonna be okay?”,_ hollow in meaning because the answer is an obvious contradiction, but important regardless.

It’s an unsaid _“I’m here if you need anything”_ that remains unsaid because he never _hasn’t_ been there, especially for this.

Most of all it’s an acknowledgement of that one thing they have in common that makes the bond between the remaining Blakes and the remaining Griffins unbreakable.

She lets out a quiet “So do you” before walking exiting.

**********

It should feel like fiction to Lexa, something to be read out of one of her books: a fantasy for the ages with class conflict and forbidden bonds and cloaked men with plots to thwart the heroes’ attempts to make change. The circumstances are unbelievable enough to be compelling‒ that one can truly care enough about another person to put themselves at risk is something she has never before experienced firsthand‒ and yet the reality of it all is what keeps her moving forward, flipping the pages on this ill-advised novelization of a future monarch’s downfall.

At times it’s the only part of her life that feels real. All day she studies theory and long-past history and strategy for potential battles and decorum for meetings she won’t make until she’s ascended. It’s simulation, performance, practice for situations that don’t yet exist. She’s out of touch with reality on a fundamental level.

The visits are a reminder of what’s out there, beyond what she’s seen and what she can imagine. When they talk of Clarke’s friends, Lexa’s confronted with the very real struggles for basic necessities her people endure while Lexa learns how to tackle boundary disputes and bow properly. When they speak of Clarke’s dealings with the Thieves’ Guild, Lexa realizes the desperation of the community she was raised in, circumstances created by a culture they’re excluded from.

Clarke reminds her that she has to do better because there are people depending on it. That itself grounds her efforts in something more substantial than logic involving words like “legacy” and “destiny”.

She doesn’t have to lie about what she’s thinking when she’s with Clarke, be it political revolution or tenderness (both of which remain unfit for a princess by all accounts).

That shouldn’t be so fantastical.

The tower-climbing, though, can’t be interpreted in any way other than overdramatic.

Lexa smiles lightly as she hears the gentle thud of boots landing on her balcony, and counts the strides _“one… two… three… four…”_

The door creaks open wider. Lexa stands from her sofa and turns towards the noise, hands clasped in front of her.

“Good evening, princess.” Clarke greets her with mock-formality, grin mischievous and blue eyes sparkling as they reflect the light of the fire in Lexa’s hearth.  She approaches Lexa, and the cockiness in her walk is a clear indication that she’s in for quite the tale tonight.

“You forgot to curtsy, I’ll have you flogged”

Clarke snorts, rolls her eyes, and swats at Lexa before flopping down on the couch with about as much grace as a mutt scampering through a muddy street. She finds it endlessly endearing.

Lexa sits next to her, barely having time enough to settle in her seat when Clarke’s announcing with pride, “I completed my initiation today.”

“Meaning you’re officially a full member?” Clarke nods with zeal, the clear excitement in her expression making her look much too young for the job she’s come into. “Clarke, that’s incredible!”

“I thought I could do it, and then I didn’t, but it all worked out so I’m happy.”

“Wait, start at the beginning. You know I like hearing the full story.”

She begins her tale with enthusiasm, leaning on the edge of her seat, voice-filled with disgust as she first tells Lexa of the villainous pawn broker and his shifty dealings. Lexa listens attentively, hanging onto every word Clarke lets out like she’s telling her the secrets of the universe.

Clarke spares no details, a fact Lexa usually appreciates when hearing such a compelling tale. But her stomach drops when she recounts her run-in with the guard. Heat rises up the back of her neck and, for the first time, Lexa gets too distracted masking her reaction to listen to Clarke talk at all.

Clarke is finished her story by the time she’s noticed Lexa’s effectively checked out completely, clear disappointment at Lexa’s lack of any sort of reaction showing in her eyes.

“Lexa?”

She focuses directly on a spot on the far wall near Clarke’s head, a bad taste in her mouth. Lexa swallows before speaking, and when she does her voice is lower than what she intends. “A guard _hit_ you?”

Clarke nods.

Lexa feels capable of spontaneous combustion and stopping time all at once, a mixture of anger both burning hot and freezing cold so as to drag out the destruction she’s poised to inflict.

“Do you know his name?”

“We didn’t exchange pleasantries, Lexa.” Clarke shifts her body so Lexa has to look at her. “Why are you acting strange all of a sudden?”

She ignores the question entirely, the thought of voicing her hatred and disgust and the potential reasons for their unrelenting hold causing this unbearable pain in her chest frightening her.

Instead she comes up with a plan.

“You should train with me once Anya returns. She won’t mind.”

_“She won’t mind”_ is an odd way of saying _“She won’t stop it from happening”_ but it’s what she decides on nonetheless.

Lexa makes an attempt at an even and objective-sounding delivery, doing her best to level her voice and minimize the emotion behind her words.“I could teach you how to defend yourself in case something like this happens again.”

The response comes as quick as it does derisive. “Fighting back isn’t really what you want to do when you’re already being harassed by a guard. I’d prefer to keep my head if possible.”

She has a point.

It doesn’t change Lexa’s mind.

“Clarke, be reasonable. You’re already bound to find yourself in more tenuous situations now that you’re an active member. Knowing how to absorb a blow or avoid an attack, at the very least, would be nothing but beneficial to you.”

“Lexa‒”

“Clarke.”

They enter a staring match then, one Lexa is much too desperate to lose.

When Clarke looks away, shaking her head, Lexa launches into another entreaty. “It doesn’t have to be a large commitment. Once a week, if that. You can meet me here and we’ll go to the training grounds together. They won’t be able to protest to your presence if you’re already with me.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please tell me you’ll think about it.”

Blue meets green, and Clarke nods, just barely.

It’s enough for Lexa to feel relieved, the coil in her chest letting up just enough for them to spend the rest of their evening as if nothing had changed at all.

**********

Anya returns not a week after.

It’s a quiet affair, for the most part, victory marches and homecoming parades only reserved for battles officially classified as such. There’s an added freedom implicit with such an arrangement; Lexa can greet Anya as she pleases without the ritual formality and ceremony of most other returns. The drawback of this, however, is that nothing occurs on a schedule, meaning the arrival occurs largely by surprise and amidst the rest of the palace’s daily functions.

And Lexa just happens to be in the middle one of Titus’s lessons when she hears the telltale horns from the front gates announcing Anya’s presence.

He does his best to act as if it didn’t happen, largely ignoring the reflex to turn towards such a disruptive noise. If Lexa wasn’t conscious of his intent behind feigning unawareness, she may have guessed he didn’t hear it at all.

“… The truth of the matter is that there are those born with the natural capability to rule, and those predestined to follow. We’ve seen this time and time again in the other nations’ experiments with republics and military dictatorships: they fail when natural-born leaders are not the ones with complete control, as was the case most recently in Ouskejon when their elected leaders were ousted in favor of reestablishing a previous regime. After the resulting civil war, and the proper monarch was at last crowned upon victory, conditions within the nation stabilized, and it realized a period of prosperity the likes of which it hadn’t seen in decades. The irony in this is that the same people who so often object to such rule are the same ones who would benefit most from being led properly. Luckily‒”

“Titus.” If she didn’t stop him now he’d likely drone on for another hour, all because she asked why Trigeda was the only nation that hasn’t once attempted a shift in governing body since its conception, unlike every other.

Lexa already knew the official answer, of course. Trigeda has always prided itself in taking after the First Nation in every aspect conceivable, the original leader ‒Queen Alexandria I’s only daughter‒ being the only one of Her Royal Court whom remained completely loyal to her ideals after her assassination. The logic in keeping so much stable is that, assuming the nations once again reunite, Trigeda will be able to present itself as the obvious leader, maintaining both the largest army and the infrastructure most well-suited to ruling over the largest territory.

The official answer isn’t something she understands. Respect for tradition is one thing. A desire to stay on the forefront in international affairs is one thing. An unwillingness to change, even when it might be the best option, is an entirely different topic.

And she doesn’t really expect an answer contrary to what explanations she’s always given, but she was hoping for something nonetheless. If these expectations could be presented to her in a way that makes sense, maybe she’d feel more prepared to fulfill them, and she wouldn’t feel like such a disappointment for everyone trying to help her.

It’s at that thought she stands up abruptly from her seat at the desk. “May we take a break?”

Titus stops his pacing before her and sighs. “Your Highness, we’ve only just begun for the day. Surely it can wait.”

“It’d be improper form not to greet Anya after her acts of service, Titus.”

He doesn’t appear particularly convinced by her entreaty, but likely considers it unworthy the hassle and the time to argue with her, and acquiesces to her request for a break. “If you must… meet me back here post haste.”

Lexa’s rushing out of the room before he can finish speaking, hoping to catch Anya before she’s disappeared somewhere within the depths of the palace.

She reaches the foyer, tumbling through the doorway from the hall to the entryway, and thinks she missed her chance to greet her mentor until a voice calling from the grand staircase makes her spin on her heels.

“Looking for someone, Your Highness?”

Anya’s smirk is in place, just as it was when she last left her, and she looks no worse for the wear at all, much to Lexa’s relief. Something about the mysterious circumstances surrounding her departure had Lexa on edge the entire time she’d gone, in truth.

Lexa doesn’t restrain her smile, making strides up the stairs without hesitation. “I take it the venture was successful.”

“More or less. I’m headed to give Her Majesty my official report now.”

“I see. And is there much to report on?”

The twitch of Anya’s brow and the manner in which she pauses before avoiding the question is answer enough. “Have you kept up with your training as I asked of you?”

She nods. “You might be out of a job soon, Indra said I’ve made marked improvements under her wing.”

“We’ll have to see about that.” Anya says with a slight chuckle before looking Lexa over. “I can’t keep your mother waiting. I’ll come steal you away from Titus when I’ve finished. I plan to take you to the barracks to greet some of the soldiers who accompanied me, so be ready.”

Her smile only grows as Anya turns away. Lexa mumbles out “It’s good to see you, Anya” without any particular desire for her to hear it.

The older woman throws a single “Of course it is” over her shoulder before disappearing up the staircase, and Lexa shakes her head for making the venture back towards the library.

Bracing herself for more explanations that don’t satisfy her feels easier knowing there’s at least one person on Royal grounds who doesn’t expect her to buy into them entirely.

**********

Training with Clarke and Anya is… an experience, to say the least.

Lexa doesn’t tell Anya of her plans, instead banking on her possession of manners enough to prevent her from turning Clarke away immediately after she’s already shown up, a tactic that wouldn’t work with forewarning. She’s correct in this regard, though the “we’ll talk about this later” look Anya directs at her is only slightly subtler than Lexa’s discomfort under the weight of that looming discussion.

They don’t get off to the best start, by Lexa’s standards, who’s already on edge and wanting things to go as smoothly as possible in order to convince Clarke to make a habit of the sessions. In introduction, Clarke makes it a point to inform Anya of her less than ideal reputation among her people. It’s honest, at least, that Clarke is upfront about her distrust of the woman.

She wishes Clarke had the capacity to be a little less genuine when Anya says “poor attitude for someone needing help” in response.

After a tense silence Anya establishes her terms: Clarke will train only after Lexa’s finished, and will be taught directly by Lexa, as she’s only willing to take a strictly supervisorial role in the effective armament of someone technically forbidden from entering Royal Grounds. They’re stipulations Lexa foresaw, and ones she believes Clarke will be most comfortable with, in any manner, considering her distaste for the older woman.

In practice, though, the terms are much more difficult to follow through on. Or, at the very least, more frustrating.

For one thing, Anya’s more dedicated than ever to keeping a grip on her weapon, and even more so to exploiting every potential angle through which Lexa can lose hers. Whether out of a desire to test her progress, embarrass her in front of Clarke, or simply put off Lexa’s victory until Clarke has to leave without training, Lexa really is not a fan.

Not to mention to taunting. Lexa loved to miss the taunting while Anya was away, a practice Indra never once employed during their time together.

“Now, Lexa, while I sympathize with your desire to impress the girl,” Anya swipes at Lexa’s legs, she jumps to avoid the blow, fighting to reestablish her balance quickly “disarming me is the intention, not dancing around until the sun goes down.”

Lexa leans to the left to avoid a jab, “you’re always advising me not to take unnecessary risks.”

“It’s not a risk if you’re sure of yourself.”

Lexa ducks under a maneuver from Anya, and jabs upwards at her abdomen. Anya spins away just in time, coming around with another attack directed at Lexa’s sword arm.

She barely manages to roll away before the blow makes direct contact.

Turning to face Anya head on, Lexa sees Clarke out of the corner of her eye, watching intently from the sidelines, knees pressed up against her chest and leaning forward towards the sparring ground.

It’s with newfound determination that Lexa charges forward. She swears she hears Anya’s laughter as she attempts a downward slash.  

The momentary attention Anya focuses on deflecting the blow upwards gives Lexa an idea.

Lexa doesn’t let up on her assault, pressing forward towards the edge of the ring, moving Anya gradually backwards. It’s tiring, and Lexa practically sees the wheels turning in Anya’s head as she considers her strategy.

Finally, Anya stops giving Lexa ground, a moment Lexa had been waiting for the entire time. Lexa slows her offense, with intention, as Anya gradually builds the pace of her own. She tightens her grip on her blade, prepared to absorb the devastating blow Anya’s bound to direct at her at any moment.

The blow comes, and Lexa’s ready, pulling her blade towards her under Anya’s rather than deflecting it head on.

It’s not what Anya’s expecting, having thrown the entirety of her built up momentum into the attack. When it doesn’t land as she planned, her balance shifts, a weakness Lexa exploits immediately. Lexa uses her unarmed hand to shove Anya in the direction her body’s already traveling.

She stumbles forward, one knee and her unarmed hand catching her on the ground, but it’s too late to recover. Lexa follows, and touches the tip of her blade to the back of Anya’s neck before she has a chance to stand.

It’s a match.

The stance only lasts a moment before Lexa lowers her sword.

Anya drops her weapon before standing and turning to face Lexa, proud look in her eye. “I see Indra had you work on redirection.”

Lexa nods, still trying to slow her breathing.

“Well done.” Anya touches a hand to Lexa’s shoulder before looking towards the sidelines at their guest. “You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, Anya.”

Her mentor waves her off as she strides towards the edge of the ring. “Don’t thank me yet. Teaching’s a pain in the ass.”

It’s a lesson Lexa learns quickly.

Clarke is… difficult.

She asks almost immediately if she’s getting her own sword, and pouts quite visibly when Lexa says that it’ll be years before Clarke graduates to the use of weapons, “strong foundations in hand-to-hand being most critical for safety purposes as well as practical application.”

When Lexa suggests they begin with how to properly strike, the offense is clear on Clarke’s features.

“I know how to hit someone, Lexa.”

“Fine. I figured you’d want to start with offense, but practicing basic defense will work just as well.” She rolls her shoulders as she walks towards the center of the sparring grounds, expecting Clarke to follow. When she looks back, Clarke remains fixed in her original position, arms crossed against her chest.

She calls out to her. “I’m a little less ‘basic’ than you think I am.”

Lexa doesn’t doubt Clarke’s ability: she’s learned by now the girl’s capacity to prove her wrong when she underestimates her. She only wishes to hone in on the formal skills Clarke may lack like pacing oneself in a fight and exploitation of an enemy’s weaknesses.

Finding the words to express that desire isn’t easy, however. Clarke doesn’t fold in the face of traditional methods of persuasion, much too stubborn and competitive to give in to logic that seems straight forward to Lexa. Always questioning, always challenging conventions Lexa’s held as fact for her entire life. As she looks upon her now her blue eyes sparkle in the light of the sun as if daring Lexa to try to teach _her_ something.

Because teaching implies a sense of superiority, an inequity of knowledge rather than an exchange. The teacher has authority, the pupil acts as a subordinate. She should have realized sooner Clarke would be uncomfortable with such methods.

If she wants Clarke to be willing to accept her help, she has to stop trying to teach.

So Lexa does her best to make a game out of it.

“Are you willing to prove that?”

“What?”

“Let’s put your skills to the test, Clarke. We’ll call it a chance at retribution for that incident in the library.”

“You said you’d stop bringing that up.” Clarke drops her arms from her chest, a disbelieving yet interested look on her features. “Are you saying you want to spar with me?”

Lexa does her best to ignore Anya watching them intently from the sidelines. With a slight grin she challenges, “We don’t have all day.”

Clarke hesitates only a moment before charging at her, and Lexa has more difficulty in forcing down her smile than sidestepping that first blow.

**********

The match is a mess of things, really.

There’s entirely too much laughter and levity for the severity of the session’s purpose, and neither wins so much as they both collapse side by side onto their backs in a fit of such laughter, out of breath and uncaring that there’s a world outside of their tiny one.

Lexa wipes the sweat from her brow and stares up at the sky, a blue lighter than Clarke’s eyes but infinitely less dynamic. “You’re fast” she manages to say as her breathing slowly returns to normal.

“Does that mean I get to play with the swords next time?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Their laughter returns with renewed vigor, and they find an amnesia-inspiring harmony in the sounds of their synced, unadulterated joy seeming to burst directly from their chests. The clouds above may as well be the only witness, watching them as they watch each other, and even they slowly drift away, unwilling to interrupt a rare moment in which two girls can be just that.

The moment isn’t ripped from them as much as it’s let go, the permanence of one little while traded for the promise of another. It’s a fair trade, Lexa thinks, as long as there’s another.

There has to be another.

The question isn’t asked in words but with a look. “Will you come tomorrow?”

The answer is a smile and not a nod. “I always do.”  

As Lexa watches Clarke depart across the training grounds and towards the tree line, she feels Anya approach her. A similar silent conversation takes place, acknowledgment of what she undoubtedly saw transpire and pointed non-acknowledgment of what it means. It isn’t until Lexa asks, “Is this the part where you tell me to be careful?” that the illusion of ambiguity is shattered.

She doesn’t think Anya will respond until she hears a quiet but clear “Not today. Maybe tomorrow” and the sound of boots retreating towards the palace.

**********

Clarke wakes up the next morning wishing she hadn’t.

The light peeping through the spaces where the panels in the shacks’ walls don’t quite fit together shines directly on the side of her face, heating her skin until it feels like it’s burning. Still she remains, unwilling to open her eyes or move to block out the light, either action bringing with it implicit acceptance that the day has begun.

And it’s a day Clarke would do anything to deny.

She thinks she might be able to take the burn, considers it a worthwhile bargain if it’s the only cost denial demands.

But it isn’t the only price she’d be paying.

Her ears pick up the sound of paper scraping against paper from across the small room. The sound doesn’t surprise her, she knew today would be the only day of the year she didn’t wake up alone. Part of her wants to ignore it, like all else. The other part of her is physically incapable of doing that when quiet sniffling joins the shuffling of paper.

Clarke opens her eyes and sits up, her arms coming up to wrap around her legs as she pulls them tightly against her chest, chin coming to rest on her knees. Her muscles are still sore from yesterday and the stretch her position demands is bound to become painful within minutes.

She doesn’t care for the pain.

Not while she watches her mother sit across the room on her cot with a stack of letters beside her and one in her hand, looking smaller than she’s seen her since last year.

Abby holds the letter in her hand at an awkwardly distant angle, and Clarkes sees her squinting as a few tears roll down her cheeks. Her mother works all but one day a year, laboring tirelessly in the Ark’s only clinic. Her hours are long, making her leave before the sun rises and come home hours after dusk.

And yet she never looks more exhausted than she does today.

Clarke doesn’t know what her mother needs. He isn’t something she can give her.

Abby does all her mourning today, though manifesting in a different way every year.

The first year was the most frightening, and Clarke remembers it clearly. She didn’t leave her bed for a moment, or even shift her position. She stared at the ceiling until the day was over, saying nothing and responding to nothing, Clarke’s many attempts to rouse her attention all failing. When the day was over she carried on like nothing had ever happened.

The second year Abby threw a party, an odd festivity in their district on principle. Families came to their dwelling and brought what little food they had in their possession, all in an effort to remember the man so many of them loved and missed dearly. She didn’t cry that day. Clarke liked that year better than anything else. She thinks He would have too.

The year after, she drank herself blind by the end of the morning and had passed out on the floor in the front room by the afternoon. Clarke spent the day with Octavia and Bellamy, all pretending they couldn’t hear the slurred out “why’d you leave?”s and “I can’t do this without you”s through the wall they share.

The fourth year, Abby had Clarke fetch both of the Blake siblings in the morning and they spent the day all curled up together in the most comfortable blankets they owned, talking about their favorite memories of Aurora and Jake until the sun went down. Clarke remembers that year as the one they cried the most.

Abby spent the fifth year writing a letter. Clarke still doesn’t know who it was for, or if it was sent.

And now, on the six year anniversary of her father’s death, Clarke moves towards her mother with care, wraps her arms around her back, and presses her head up against her so as to listen to her heart beat, the only reassurance that she’s still here.

Abby leans back against her daughter, and moves her free hand to grasp at her shoulder.

With barely more than a whisper, Clarke asks “Can you tell me the story?”

Her mother takes a deep breath before she shifts on the bed, drops the letter onto the pile, and lowers Clarke’s head down to her lap.

“Okay.”

She tells Clarke the story of a man named Jake, a low-level noble from Azgeda who fell in love with a traveling physician, and chose her over his family, his title, his wealth, and his nationhood.

She tells Clarke the story of a man named Jake, a self-taught carpenter who convinced his wife to settle in the newly established slum district of the land’s largest city, his desire to help those who needed it most overwhelming his need for finer comforts.

She tells Clarke the story of a man named Jake. A friend, a husband, and a father who always chose those that he loved over himself and, god, how he loved many.

Clarke knows the parts that her mother leaves out, but she’s grateful. Endings are too heartbreaking, especially when they come too soon.

Instead, Clarke basks in the memory of her father, and makes a silent promise to do her best to live as he would have.

**********

Lexa’s awakened by frantic banging on her door, hours passed sunrise.

She lifts her head towards the offending noise, rubs her eyes, and spits the bit of hair from her mouth before rasping out “Enter”, still too unconscious to care that her current state is unfit to receive a visitor.

Veira charges through the door before Lexa finishes the second syllable. She marches to the end of the room and opens the curtains, the sudden light blinding Lexa as she attempts to stretch out. “Your Highness, Her Royal Majesty is on her way.”

The sentence, once processed, is more sobering than a bucket of ice water, and just as chilling.

She doesn’t wait for an explanation before launching herself from the bed and padding towards the wardrobe as quickly as her legs can carry her. Her breathing quickens, and she isn’t sure whether the dizzy feeling is tied to getting up too quickly or the sudden nausea she feels.

“I don’t know her intentions, only heard one of her serving girls prepping to announce her before coming here immediately. It might be nothing to worry about.” The woman tries to her from the brink of a full blown panic attack.

“It’s something. If she’s coming _here_ it’s something.”

In the six years Lexa’s lived in the tower, her mother has never once come to see her. She’s been summoned many times, some of those by surprise. But a drop in visit is not something she’s ever had to prepare for.

It terrifies her.

As she strips from her nightclothes, she glances around the pockets of disarray around the room. Bed unmade, dust gathering on the tops of dressers, books strewn across every possible flat service, dishes from the desserts Lexa would bring up to share with Clarke during her visits. The room hadn’t seemed this chaotic last night.

Veira darts around doing her best to tidy up the place while also helping Lexa get her dress and hair in order, looking even more alarmed than Lexa felt. She tugs roughly at the laces at Lexa’s back, going too fast and pulling too tight. They both stop breathing when they hear footsteps coming up the stairs; the echo traveling upwards becomes deafening.

Lexa can’t stop her hands from shaking. She rubs at her face trying to wipe off the lingering traces of sleep. She feels Veira fumble with the last strands of her hair, trying to at least finish the braid before‒

Knocking.

It sounds like the sharpening of an executioner’s blade.

Lexa puts a hand to her chest, and inhales to steady herself. Veira nods at her before moving towards the back of the room, eyes cast downwards.

“Enter.” She’s surprised her voice doesn’t crack.

A serving girl opens the door and curtsies. “Good morning, Your Highness.” Lexa nods in acknowledgement.  The girl opens the door again, and bows as Gustus ducks his head through the entryway, and then announces “Her Royal Majesty”.

Queen Alyna stands before her, chin held high and hands clasped behind her back. The room feels stuffy, and Lexa’s dress is suddenly much too tight. She watches as her mother strides around the room, silently appraising every aspect of Lexa’s space as if it were a carriage she’s considering for purchase.

“Good morning, mother.”

“Good morning, Alexandria. I trust you slept well.”

 “As good as ever, thank you.” The room falls into a tense silence, the sort that comes when you’re ordered to stand idly by as you witness a violent sort of invasion. She swallows before stepping towards the Queen. “What brings you here?” Her attempt at keeping her tone light fails miserably, sounding much closer to the tone one would take when asking what one can do to get someone to leave.

The queen shifts to face Lexa directly, the sun’s reflection in her cool grey eyes and the glint from the gold lace decorating her red gown having an effect akin to the painful first light one sees after days immersed in darkness. “I came to inform you that I’m announcing the recommencement of palace activity tomorrow morning.”

The statement brings a flood of questions to the forefront of Lexa’s mind, the first being _“Why now?”_ and whether or not the timing has anything to do with Anya’s return and her report on her short mission. Her thoughts are interrupted before she has the chance to voice any one of them.

As if anticipating the questions, Queen Alyna moves her hand up to stop them before they can start. “That’s not all. It’s come to my attention that there’s been some… concern regarding your preparedness for ascension. For that reason, I’ve decided to take a more active role in your daily routine. When you’re not occupied with your lessons, you’ll be shadowing me, learning directly the role you’ll need to maintain when you take my place.”

Lexa’s first thought is that of loss. She’s accustomed to the effect her time with her mother has on her. For every hour a week they spend occupied with their chess games, Lexa needs three hours to regain herself. She doesn’t know that she’s prepared for more of that.

The second is that of failure. This is a punishment, an extended process of reshaping Lexa into what she’d failed to become on her own. She is not fit to be a queen, she isn’t even fit to be a princess. That her mother’s finally noticed enough to step in directly makes her eyes burn and her chest feel hollow.

The third is naïve and childish, and she’s loathe to acknowledge that the potential for reconnection with her mother even crossed her mind.

Such a thought is why this is occurring.

Such a thought is why Lexa’s failed.

Such a thought is what Lexa’s about to lose.

“I see you’re disappointed, Alexandria. Don’t be. Your failure is not a reflection upon you but upon me for thinking I could take a step back and expect your progress to continue. You cannot fulfill your destiny without my guidance, I see that now.” Her mother steps towards her, coming closer than she has in years. The proximity frightens Lexa, but she has to physically hold herself back from throwing herself into the remaining gap. Alyna drops her gaze to meet Lexa’s eyes, and doesn’t start speaking until they lift. “We’re going to do great things together, Alexandria.” The smile on her face is the masterfully crafted brand of genuine fit for a Queen.

Lexa’s never found her mother more intimidating than in that very moment.

The locked gaze is temporary, as is the warmth in the room. Everything chills as Queen Alyna turns strides towards the door and says “Now, let us go see your father.”

She tries to pinch herself from the nightmare.

**********

Lexa becomes certain of a few things very quickly, and all while she follows her mother through the palace halls and towards her father’s quarters.

The first, the realization that comes as the travels down the steps of her tower, is that the resumption of palace activity _absolutely_ has something to do with the news Anya brought from the battlefront.

The second (while cutting across the courtyard) is that the news wasn’t good if it’s to drive her mother away from her father’s bedside‒ and away from her belief that keeping up appearances is the most beneficial action‒ so suddenly.

While walking through the passage the holds her parents’ wedding portrait another thought comes, and it’s that, in doing this, her mother is choosing her care for the nation’s well-being over her care for her father.

A smaller realization that isn’t quite news but is something she’s yet to stomach comes attached to the previous: Lexa will have to make similar decisions.

The last fact she knows to be true comes when she stands before the door separating her from her father. Despite over a year of their forced estrangement, Lexa isn’t ready to see him.

She has the serving girl open the door nonetheless.

The room is dark and stuffy despite the brightness and the breeze characteristic of the season, and the stench is putrid. The effects of illness are omnipresent. This is the room of a dying man. She has to remind herself that it belongs to her father.

She recognizes the vase that sits on the table in the center of the room. The flowers have long since died, and no one’s taken the care to replace them. Lexa remembers coming in here as a child, always excited to see what new flowers her father had picked from his garden.

She wonders if she was the only one that truly cared for the tradition.

Lexa approaches his bedside slowly, her mother following after her but remaining in the corner of the room as if to grant them the illusion of privacy.

Looking upon him makes her feel ill.

He’s never been a particularly strong man, his long history of infirmity preventing his ever taking on the form fit for a king. But she’s never seen him so frail, or his cheeks so gaunt, or his hair so thin, or his green eyes so vacant.

She turns her head towards her mother, just briefly, but it’s enough to absorb what looks like the closest thing to fear she’s ever witnessed on the face of the great Queen Alyna. The expression makes the hair on her arms stand. In an instant, she stops being angry that her mother’s kept her from the sight before her. Lexa doesn’t know the reason for it, but she does know she wouldn’t have been able to stomach watching his transformation day after day.

Not like her mother has.

Lexa shakes herself from the thought, the emotion it evokes feeling much too close to sympathy, an emotion the target of it would scorn. Instead she closes the remaining gap.

She has to get close to him before he recognizes her presence at all.

When he does, Roark turns his head and squints at her, the room too dim for immediate recognition of someone he hasn’t laid eyes on in far too long. He knows her after a moment, and turns his palm upwards, croaking out “Alexandria” with his best attempt at a smile.

Lexa takes his hand immediately, though she wishes she hadn’t. The desire to squeeze it is too much for the fear she has of breaking it. “Hello, father.” She reminds herself of the presence behind her, likely appraising her every action. “How are you feeling today?”

If he had been a different man, a stronger man, a kingly man, or a humorous man, she would have gotten a different answer. Instead, she gets an honest one.

“I’m tired, my daughter.”

She nods at him, unsure of what to say in response.

“Your mother brought you here?” Again, she nods, more distrusting of her voice than she has been all morning. “She’s taken good care of me, Alexandria, better than anyone would have expected.”

Lexa knows the statement is even more loaded than it seems. Titus has told her the story of the Queen who chose the sickly brother of the man who’d been officially courting her. It’s seen as the largest transgression of Queen Alyna’s entire rule, and one Titus has yet to forgive, having been the one to stage her courtship. When she asked for further details, Titus said only that Her Majesty had her own logic to the decision.

Part of her, a part she keeps hidden and a part that she’d deny if anyone ever asked, believes that the logic had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with love. It’s the same part of her that refuses to let go of Clarke’s companionship. It’s the same part of her she holds sacred.

The other part, the part that knows her mother, scolds the other for being naïve. Love has no place in decision making. She loves him, there’s no doubt in that. But this part is willing to accept that the love was born after his role in her strategy.

A part of her that even she doesn’t recognize at times screams at her that maybe neither of the others is wrong, and that maybe love and strategy can exist simultaneously.

She may never know the real reason why her mother chose her father. She doesn’t think she has the courage to ask.

Every word seems a labor to her father, but he tries at them, a gesture Lexa appreciates endlessly. She updates him on her lessons and her readings, telling him of (almost) everything significant in her life, though the missing parts leave gaping holes in how she’s changed.

Lexa can’t even explain to him why she’s happy.

He asks after Veira and how she’s been treating Lexa, reminding her (as he tends to every time her name comes up) that her mother was his own nurse when he was a child. She pretends she’s never heard of such a fact before.

Conversation falls idle all too soon, the secrets Lexa’s keeping from the other presence in the room rendering her incapable of continuing it with any statements of note, and the lack of acknowledgement of their inevitable goodbye making things uncomfortable.

Her mother spares her from it. “It’s time to let your father rest, Alexandria.”

She nods, and squeezes his hand with as much care as she can manage. Lexa leans down, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Goodbye, father.”

It’s an act of bravery.

When she turns to leave, his voice interrupts her. “Alexandria, have the peonies bloomed for the season?”

Lexa’s mind flashes with images of the garden, barren and forgotten about since her father’s disease had taken a turn. Nothing’s bloomed for a number of seasons. All that resides there now are memories of a lighter time, and a graveyard of dead foliage that turns to dust upon contact.

“Yes, father. They’re looking beautiful this year.”

It’s an act of mercy.

**********

That night, the little hairs on her body stand at attention and her throat feels heavy and she doesn’t fit inside of herself. There’s something too big to contain within and it makes her want to scream as much as it makes her want to vomit. She’s close to bursting, and considers for a moment that maybe it might provide some sort of relief or comfort unlike any she’s getting from simply existing as she is.

Clarke decides against a trip to Lexa’s, convincing herself that a venture towards the same sort of picturesque nobility and privilege that caused the tragedy of the day would be a kind of betrayal. She wants to sleep instead, restless as it might be, and opt out a drawn out end to an already less than ideal day.

She tries. She really does. But something about the lumpy cot feels more uncomfortable than usual and the moon shines brighter than normal and her mother’s snores from across the room are too disruptive. None of it brings about even a moment of slumber. Sleep doesn’t feel right, not as she attempts it, so she stops trying to force her body into something it’s clearly resisting.

Instead, Clarke considers her options.

She could visit the Blakes, but on the off chance that Octavia is up and Bellamy’s home, she doesn’t know that she wants to force them to dredge up the feelings of the past associated with today. They’ll have their own grief to deal with soon, Clarke can’t make them experience it early.

Headquarters isn’t a viable choice either unless she wants to get caught up in the memories of her father working tirelessly to perfect the plans for it only months before his death. The mere thought of it makes the inner thing push out even further.

Clarke could drop in at nearly any place in her district and find someone there willing to sit up with her. She disqualifies names almost as quickly as they come to mind, each one being written off for one reason or another. She isn’t looking for someone to pity her. She just wants someone to…

She just wants someone.

She tells herself that wants can form out of habit or convenience.

She tells herself that it’s not betrayal when it’s like that.

And she does exactly what she told herself she wouldn’t do, the decision alone enough to calm the inner thing, at least for the moment.

**********

It takes her less time than usual to reach royal grounds, the hurry in her step being attributed to the late hour and not at all to the ever growing desire she has to see and talk to Lexa.

When she arrives at the tower, Clarke is surprised to see Lexa on the balcony, leaned up against the railing and looking outwards towards the garden below her. The night is clouded, but the moon is full and the light catches Lexa’s eyes in such a way that tears afraid to fall from so high up seem permanently painted in them, like jewels more precious than those she’s seen around the queen’s neck. Her hair is thrown over one of her shoulders, and from such a height she seems almost inhuman in every quality about her. She looks beautiful, and larger than life.

But mostly she looks heartbroken.

It’s almost terrifying to think of such people existing: untouchable by nature and distant by design yet so needing of comfort.

It’s even more terrifying to think that Clarke means to try anyways.

She shakes herself out of her trance before calling up to the girl. “Lexa.”

 Clarke can’t make out the small smile, but she can hear it, and the image is perfectly clear in her mind, more a reflection of how much Clarke pays attention than how many times she’s seen it. “Good evening, Clarke.”

“I’m sorry it’s so late.”

“Don’t be.”

She remains looking up at the girl, whose eyes still remained transfixed at the garden, for a moment longer before glancing towards the lattice next to the balcony. Clarke takes a step towards it. “I’m coming up!” She calls, with every intention of doing just that.

That is, until she spares a look back at the garden Lexa’s so fixated on.

Clarke backs up until Lexa’s in her view again, and then calls “Unless you want to come down.”

It seems like she doesn’t register Clarke’s words, the only indication that she does being a delayed glance towards the lattice and a hesitant step towards it. Lexa says nothing, but touches a tentative hand to the wood.

“It’s stable, I promise.” She looks down to Clarke, uncertainty still written all over her features.

To Clarke, a fear of heights seems nonsensical for a person that lives in a tower. She wonders how long the fear’s persisted; if Lexa was once little and banished to the very highest point possible despite her terror in the name of some sort of punishment, or if it’s a new fear only born out of the realization that coming down was indeed an option.

It’s then that she’s reminded of a clear day on horseback. A girl unwilling to let go before being asked to.

“Come down when you’re ready. I’ll be here to make sure you don’t slip, Lexa.”

Lexa doesn’t take too long after that, and something about that makes Clarke’s cheeks burn.

Something about the way Lexa climbs down takes her breath away, moving with intention not to prove she’s unafraid but to conquer her fear.

Something about Lexa makes the inner thing calm and restless at the same time.

When the princess plants her feet firmly on the ground, she turns towards the garden. The expression isn’t as filled with pride as Clarke had expected, and it’s difficult to label at all. A mixture of nostalgia and grief, for certain, but there’s another aspect to Lexa in that moment that muddles what’s usually so clear for Clarke to decipher.

 They approach the center of the garden together, Lexa taking care to step over the fallen petals instead of crushing them into dust beneath her feet, and Clarke taking after her example.

There’s a single bench, and they share it, Lexa sitting first and Clarke beside her.

The heaviness to the silence makes Clarke regret suggesting she come down. She’s freezing, it’s late, and Lexa seems even more upset now than she had when she was standing out on the balcony. She’s wracking her brain for a way to suggest they climb back up and spend time by the fire inside when Lexa says as if it’s the simplest fact in the world: “The king is dying.”

She knew that, they both knew that. But it’s never been said before, and Clarke doubts that Lexa’s even consciously thought it before.

“He asked me about the peonies.”

Clarke looks around at the barren garden, and then back to Lexa.

“I lied.”

She’s never sounded more artificially devoid of emotion. Lexa feels it, but she doesn’t want to and is trying not to. It could scare Clarke‒ should scare Clarke‒ but she’s caught up in the distinct memory of telling her mother the squeezes on her hand didn’t hurt just earlier today, and then again of a man named Jake who always put those he loved above himself.

It isn’t so much that Clarke doesn’t know what to say as it is she knows there’s nothing she could say that would make it better.

So Clarke takes Lexa’s hand instead of saying anything, and they hold onto each other like they’ve never been separate at all.

They sit for hours in a graveyard of memories nearly as dead as the flowers, thinking about their parents who taught them so much and yet so little about love, both failing to see that in that garden there was indeed something blooming.

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @justicarlexa :)


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